


Keep Your Friends Close, and Your Pistol Closer

by godtiermeme



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bodyguard, Crimes & Criminals, Deaf Dave Strider, Drug Use, F/F, Gen, Good Brother Dave Strider, Inspired by the anime Gangsta, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:01:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22486009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: After escaping from a spoiled life under the thumb of the infamous Vantas crime family, Karkat Vantas ends up stuck in a battle he's not sure he belongs in, and a world he never knew existed. From the protective isolation of his father, he falls straight into the arms of the Strider brothers, a pair of mutants, known as Bloodseekers. His life is now in the hands of two overpowered mercenaries, both of whom have racked up a formidable army of bodies in their wake, yet, somehow, all of this seems better than the dull monotony of what he's left behind.
Relationships: Dave Strider & Dirk Strider, Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas, Jake English/Dirk Strider, Rose Lalonde/Kanaya Maryam
Comments: 8
Kudos: 72
Collections: Across the Universes: A Collection of all my DaveKat Fics





	1. Room in New York (Edward Hopper)

**Author's Note:**

> The painting noted in this chapter can be viewed [here](https://www.wikiart.org/en/edward-hopper/not_detected_235607).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the runaway only (surviving) son of the Vantas crime syndicate meets a pair of Bloodseekers, both of whom are as enigmatic as they are dangerous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anything in brackets [like this] is sign language. pro tip. EDIT: I did this backwards and it’s been retconned. Dave is older, Dirk is younger. Whoops. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

**19 May 2033**  
**Weather:** Hot, Humid, Dry  
**Login:** DStrider

He sits atop the hot metal roof of a dirt-covered police car. A sword, modeled after a katana, with a blade of the strongest layered metals mankind can create, hangs on his back. Behind a pair of mirrored black aviator shades, red eyes intently focus upon the lips of a man—tall, slender, tanned, with hair as white as the stray clouds in the sky, and a charming grin able to trick even the most discerning of detectives. He reaches up, runs his index and middle fingers along the left arm of his shades, and intently studies the words that automatically appear before him, overlaid by the shades onto his vision.

“Of course, officer, if we'd _known_ you didn't want that idiot dead, we wouldn't have... What? I... Hm. Dave. Dave?” The other man asks, after sticking his pistol into the gap between his belt and his pants. “Dave. The kind officer wants to inspect your blade. Would you be so kind as to relinquish your brojestic metallic creation?”

A pause. A grunt. Removing the sword from its sheath, Dave first holds it in front of himself. He studies the blade, staring at his own reflection—pale, with white hair, and a face diagonally bisected by a deep scar. After a few moments, he hands it over, cocking his head to the side as he does. He raises his hands in front of him, moving them to speak, [What's the officer so damned interested in? It's a sword. A sword's a sword, whether it cuts through sandbags or dumbasses. What's the problem?]

As the stern, wide-shouldered officer takes his time with the visual inspection of the bloodied weapon, Dirk shakes his head. “Despicable. Your weapon is in horrid condition, dude. You didn't wipe it off after you sliced that bastard in half? Keep this up, and we'll have to be running to the sharpener more often than a loose-boweled taco shop patron sprints to the toilet after they take a whole bottle of diuretics.” The automatically generated captions add a few more vowels than it might need to at times, cluing Dave in on his brother's distinctive drawl. “Whatever.” Waving his hand in the air, Dirk plops onto the asphalt, crossing his legs in front of himself. “I'll call up Jade later. She'll fix it up.”

“Hmph.” A shrug. A yawn. Out of the corner of his vision, as he prepares to lay down, another message appears.

“You little bastard! Get the fuck off of my car.”

When a reply comes, the orange color of the text indicates that it's coming from Dirk. “Really? You're going to harass the Deaf guy? Asshole.”

The officer's retort is indicated by white text, which emphatically states, “I wouldn’t care if he had half of a fucking brain, Strider. Get your little shit brother off of my fucking car, or I'll pull him off.”

“Ha!” declares Dave, only to find himself being pulled by the ankle. He slams to the ground, groaning as the sheath of his sword digs into his back. He rolls over, clutching his shoulder. When he speaks, he avoids looking at his own captions; he's aware of how distorted his own voice is. “Bastard,” he spits, emphasizing the wrong syllables and drawing out sounds for too long. His ‘R’s are muffled, and he carries a slight lisp. “Fine! Whatever. I'm down. Happy?”

“Yes.”

Dave lets forth a low growl. He folds his arms across his chest and wanders off, leaving his brother to his own devices. Without thought, he slides his fingers along the edge of his shades again. The captions disappear. In their place, the shades begin processing different data. Faces are highlighted and compiled into the database. Most are filed away without names, except for one. A rather short, somewhat chubby man. His black hair is sleek, but lightly curled; his grey eyes scan the crowd anxiously. When Dave focuses on him, the face is enlarged. The processing automatically pinpoints where he recognizes him from. A wanted posted, tattered and water damaged, calling for the safe return of Karkat Vantas, the Vantas family heir. The reward: $500,000,000.00; more than enough to pay down the debts he's accumulated.

He shifts his stance, ducking behind a nearby newspaper stall. From his pocket, he draws a bottle of medicine. He dumps a few small, white pills into his palm and pops them into his mouth. After a few seconds of chewing, he feels them hit. Only then does he begin, starting an unnaturally fast sprint towards the man.

After a moment of startled shock, Karkat, too, begins running. His mouth moves, forming words Dave doesn't bother to understand. He shoves people out of the way, toppling full trashcans and ramshackle snake oil peddling booths in his wake. It's no use, though.

Dave's goal is within sight. After a short but disastrous chase, he lunges.

**Login:** KVantas

“Goddammit! Get this enigmatic bastard off of me. Assault! This is fucking assault! Are you even listening to me? Hey!” Karkat struggles against his captor. His brows furrow. No matter how hard he tries, he can't free himself. In the oppressive summer sun, however, he catches a glimpse of something that causes him to freeze. A dog tag, stamped with the emblematic rank of a five-star general, hangs from the man's neck. The formerly shining metal is tarnished and scratched, but the information on it is clear. “Dave Strider. Born 2008. S0 Ranked Bloodseeker.”

“OH, GOD! THIS WAS A MASSIVE MIST—” Karkat doesn't get to finish. A hand claps over his mouth, and another man—similar to the first, but with a caramel complexion and more outward emotions—smirks at him. There's a metallic ringing as the stranger places a fine blade back into the sheath on Dave's back.

“He's Deaf, you spectacular moron. I see he's caught a real bankroll for us, though, so I'll excuse your unbrolievable rudeness towards my dear brother.” He shoos Dave aside, then hauls Karkat to his feet. “Now, you're going to come with me, nice and quiet, understand?” Something hard jabs into Karkat's side; when he looks down, he recognizes it as the end of a pistol, masked beneath a bloodied handkerchief. “You know how Skaia can be. Nobody gives a fuck what happens to anyone else. Human apathy at its finest, right? Now, come along with us, _really_ quiet-like, and you won't make us drop that reward to the $250,000,000.00 for a dead body. Hm?”

Karkat whimpers, only to be met by the slurred voice of his former captor. “You're gettin’ on my nerves, kid.”

“Kid? I'm twenty-three,” protests Karkat.

“Younger than me.” Dave hastens his pace, so that he's several yards ahead of both Karkat and Dirk.

With a gun held between his shoulder blades, Karkat complies without protest. He's led to a nondescript black car. The body is made to conform with current tastes. The headlights are bulbous, and the interior is fully covered in luxurious synthetic leather. _Perhaps it's an act,_ Karkat thinks. _Or, perhaps, you really can get rich on a mountain of corpses._ As this thought passes through his mind, a hood is pulled over his head. The swaying of the car, and the rhythmic tapping of fingers against a window to his right, lulls him to sleep, somehow.

When he finally regains his senses, he finds himself locked in a minimally furnished room. He's in a single bed, and the window to the east has been boarded shut. Sitting, cross-legged, before the only exit is a snoring Dave Strider. His head is tilted forward and, in spite of the tags around his neck, which mark him as a violent pariah, he somehow looks peaceful. The silvery stubble beginning to grow on his chin catches the light in a way that makes it almost seem to glow. Yet, at the first vibration from Karkat's movements, he sits upright.

“Uh... Hm...” Dave vocalizes. He rubs his chin, first, then the back of his neck. He tries to speak through gestures, but Karkat doesn't understand. This seems to draw a fair bit of frustration from the man. He shakes his head as he runs his fingers through his hair, grumbling incomprehensibly to himself. After a few seconds of this, he swipes his fingers along the left arm of his glasses. “Speak,” he commands.

“Who are you?”

Dave takes a notebook from his pocket. He scrawls out an answer, rips out the page, and throws it at Karkat.

When the other man opens it, he finds the answer, penned in cramped, sloppy handwriting. As the dog tag had said, it appears his captor's name is Dave Strider. “Who's the other man?”

The only sound in the room is the scratching of a pen against paper.

The answer hits Karkat in the chest. Dirk Strider. “The Strider Brothers? So, you're terrorists?”

“Eh!?” Dave shakes his head vigorously. Perhaps at his wit's end with this question, he speaks, “No! Of course not! We're Bloodseekers, not... uh... That.” After this, he returns to his usual stoic silence. He raises his index finger. One more question.

“You're planning on killing me, aren't you?”

At this, Dave laughs. It's a short series of loud sounds, followed by a shrug. He writes down the answer, tosses it to Karkat, and returns to his former position in front of the door.

Assuming the discussion is over, Karkat sighs. He opens the page.

_Of course not. What's the point of halving our pay? Nah. We'll hold onto you until your stupid dad ups that sweet, sweet bounty.”_


	2. Traveling in the Ravine (Ike Taiga)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, the more traditional and formal introductions of this tale's triantagonists.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anything in curly brackets, {like this} is written. [here's a link to the painting](https://asia.si.edu/object/F2018.1a-d/), from the Freer-Sackler Gallery.

**20 May 2033**  
**Weather:** Humid, Stormy  
**Login:** KVantas

Around noon, when a ground-shaking clap of thunder startles Karkat awake, the door to the room he’s being held in opens. Dave enters, bearing a platter, upon which is a plain sandwich and some chips. The man sets the meal down cautiously, then steps back.

“Hungry?” He tilts his head to the side, like a curious dog. He clears his throat, rubs the back of his neck, and pushes his shades up. “Sorry. It ain’t much. We’re low on cash. I put some of my rations in with it.” He shakes his head as he positions his right hand slightly below his breastbone, as if holding a cup, and moves it in a straight, downwards line. “Not hungry,” he provides.

“Oh.” Karkat stares at the plate. He assumes the sandwich was his original meal, and that the scant handful of chips were from Dave’s serving. Then again, perhaps Dave’s contribution is the half-eaten pickle. Whatever it is, Karkat doesn’t really bother thinking about it; he’s hungry enough to eat everything on the plate. Only after he’s finished does he bother engaging with his guard. “So... uh... Am I a prisoner?”

Dave shrugs. He takes a notepad from the side table nearby and scrawls out a response. Rather than throwing it, this time, he brings it over. He flips the pad around, so that the message is legible: {I wouldn’t consider you a captive, exactly. Dirk says you’re an asset. I’m your bodyguard, I guess. You’re free to go wherever you want, but I’ve been stuck with tagging along with you.}

A pause. After a minute or so, Dave flips the notebook back around. He writes some more. {Any other questions? I’m bored as fuck. You’re not much fun to guard}

This elicits a snort of laughter from Karkat. “Would you rather I galavant about, prancing wildly and blithely into every possible danger this hellhole of a city has to offer?”

”Mm. Yeah.” The response more closely resembles, in sound, ‘yuh’. The man, nonetheless, seems unfazed by the prospect of possible death or harm. Instead, he smiles at the notion. {I don’t like just sitting here. Keep asking questions. I’m literally an open book.}

“Is the whole not hearing thing part of your gimmick? Like how Silver Eye just has a fake eye patch?”

{No. I actually can’t hear, you insensitive shit.} A smirk is on Dave’s face as he turns the notebook towards Karkat.

“How do you know what I’m saying, then?”

{The glasses have a microphone. They process speech for me. Simple enough, right?} Once Dave is sure that his answer has been read, he flips to the next page, revealing a second message: {Why did you run away?}

Karkat narrows his eyes and bares his teeth. “I don’t think you’re entitled to that information, Strider.”

Dave shrugs. ‘Fair enough,’ he seems to say. He turns to walk away, only to be struck by an apparent revelation. His pencil scratches vigorously against the page of his book before he spins back around. Before showing his reply, he hands over a thick book. Beneath the grimy, battered cover, the title is barely visible. _Introduction to Sign Language_. {You don’t have to learn it, but it will help. I have some shit I need to take care of. I’ll be back later, and I’ll take you to get some new clothes.}

Karkat opens his mouth to respond. ‘What the fuck is wrong with my clothes? They’re perfectly goddamned serviceable,’ he wants to say, but he doesn’t get the chance.

Instead, after loudly clearing his throat, Dave flips the page. {Your threads are too nice, dude. You stick out like the sorest thumb in the knuckle buster factory.} With this, he offers a small nod. He leaves with a terse wave.

“Oh. I thought you were just shitting me about going to shop for clothes.” Karkat greets Dave with an odd amount of warmth, considering he’s being held captive by the same man. “Well. Whatever. I have money, so don’t worry about that part.”

“Hm.” Dave steps aside, holding open the door.

As they leave, Karkat notes a few things. They’re on the third floor of an apartment building, and the unit he’s in appears to be a two bedroom deal. It’s sparsely furnished throughout, so it seems that he wasn’t being treated any differently from the true residents. The windows are grimy, and the dusty grey hallway carpeting has been worn threadbare in many places. The only large personal touch he can find is a decently sized framed photo of Dave and Dirk together.

They exit into a cramped alleyway. Every now and then, Karkat sees someone sitting on a stoop. The people they pass are smoking, shooting up drugs, sharpening knives, and gutting fish. The air is heavy with the thick, metallic smell of blood and iron; the air of Skaia always is.

The sound of footsteps bounces, each soft plod echoing off ramshackle wooden partitions and stone masonry. Thud. Thud. Thud. It thrums through the air. Joining it is the jangling of the sword on Dave’s back.

_Why does he care?_ he’s never been this interested in sound before; he’s never cared all that much. Why now? Is it the sudden awareness of the fact that the man a few strides ahead of him is unaware of any of it? Or, perhaps, it’s simply the relief of freedom after being captured by a pair of possibly homicidal mercenaries.

“Here.” Dave stops. He pushes open a door, its red paint chipping away. “Go in.”

Karkat complies. The store is as run down as the rest of the city. The wooden floorboards are scuffed and broken. They creak loudly underfoot. The clothing is ratty and ragged.

“This is it?” Karkat grumbles, holding an old jacket up to himself. He studies his reflection in the mirror. His medium brown skin is covered in pale dust, which also coats his hair. He’s unsure of where it came from.

“Hm?” Dave turns. He slides his finger along the arm of his shades. “What?”

“This is all they have?”

“Ah-huh.” Dave nods.

Karkat sighs. He picks out a few jackets and shirts. They’re plain, unassuming, and overall unimpressive. When he was growing up, he was showered in the finest silks and the most expensive hand-woven linens. Threads woven of gold and silver adorned every garment, while inlaid gems sparkled within each button and embellishment. And, now?

“Is this made of a fucking potato sack!?”

Dave approaches. He rubs the fabric, then nods. “Yuh-huh.” His hands move, but the shapes they form mean nothing to Karkat. “Ah.” Dave takes a pair of battered leather gloves from the rack. He investigates the price, furrows his brows, and tosses them back.

“Hey. Uh...” When he gets no response, Karkat places a hand on Dave’s shoulder. “Did you want those?”

Dave holds his hand flat, then turns his wrist, so that his hand rotated back and forth, like a stuttering propeller. [ _Maybe._ ]

“Here. I’ll get them for you. This is basically fucking packing peanuts to me,” Karkat offers. He adds the gloves to his small stack of clothing.

In return, Dave offers a faint smile. He taps the tips of the fingers of his flattened right hand to his lips, then moves the arm out and down by his elbow. “Thank you,” he explains. He speaks strangely, dropping the soft ‘H’ and drawing out unexpected sounds.

“No problem.” It’s not a lie. With the amount of money Karkat stole before leaving, the sixty dollars for the gloves is just a drop in the bucket. He opens his mouth to say more, only to find that Dave has already exited.

The other man is visible through the grimy glass window front. He leans against the glass, with smoke trailing from the bent cigarette in his mouth.

* * *

**21 May 2033**  
**Weather:** Clear, Hot, Humid  
**Login:** DStrider

[Have you figured out why he left?] Dirk points to Karkat's room to indicate the subject of his statement. With his shades pushed up, atop his head, it's easy to see how curious he is. He wants to know more; and, truthfully, Dave can't fault him for that. After all, who _would_ want to leave the guaranteed safety of one of the four ruling mob family's fortresses? [You've spent some time with him, now, so I'm guessing you know something.]

Dave responds with a shrug. To facilitate communication, he, too, pushes his shades up, so that his expressions can be more easily read. [I don't know anything you'd want to know.] He smirks.

[Well, what do you know?] Dirk is growing impatient, now. It's visible on his face—the way his shoulders are hunched forward, and how the lines on his forehead crease. [I know it's none of my business, really, but I'd still like to know. We'll be holding onto him for who knows how long, so we might as well make some sort of effort to get to know him. Right?]

[I guess so.] Dave lights a cigarette. He sticks it between his lips before he continues, [I know about as much as you do. And that is Z-I-L-C-H.] He spells the word out for emphasis, clearly and decisively forming each letter. [He likes his coffee black, he eats pizza folded in half, and he says that mustard on hot dogs is a sin. That's about all I've got.] As he wanders towards the kitchen table, Dave lets forth a long sigh. [Any new jobs?]

[Nothing useful.] Dirk shrugs. He lays out a handful of cash, counting it carefully. [The next contract I see, I'll be sure to take, though. We need the money.]

[Vantas is loaded. Ask him.]

Dirk rolls his eyes. He kicks back, tilting his chair onto the rear legs. [I'm not asking our asset to give us his money. That's stupid.]

For now, Dave decides against telling Dirk that he'd just acquired new gloves courtesy of the so-called asset. Instead, he changes the topic. [What about Jake? He hasn't heard anything interesting?]

[My detective acquaintance has nothing to do with us, technically,] Dirk responds. There's a wry smile on his face, indicating he's aware that the lack of affiliation between himself and his boyfriend is little more than a matter of formality. [But, no, to answer your inquiry. He's caught about as much wind as sails made of bricks. There are a lot of cases being covered right now, but none of them call for our services.]

[There's a formal event soon,] comes Dave's almost offhanded reply. [Word on the street says it'll be a pretty good place to mingle. That's assuming they let us in, of course.] With this, he jangles his dog tags, holding them aloft by the base of his thumb. When he drops them, he laughs; there's no smile on his face. [Whatever. I'm meeting with Roxy at the bar tonight. Do you mind watching Karkat?]

[Not really.] Dirk throws his arm over the back of his chair. He stares at the ceiling, focusing on a fly, which buzzes around the flickering overhead light. [See you later?]

[See you later,] parrots Dave, repeating the phrase as a statement, rather than a question. He departs with a nonchalant wave, and grabs a bottle of pills from the counter as he leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as usual, thanks for reading! comments and feedback are always welcome. you can hang out with other homestuck authors at the [homestuck authors discord](https://discord.gg/p276sHH)!


	3. Artists Hand (Ai Weiwei)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, in which some basic relationships are established.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [link to the art](http://www.artnet.com/artists/ai-weiwei/artists-hand-a-2g74uhxiDA0OmLuySUh0Jg2)

**23 May 2033**  
**Weather:** Rainy, Humid, Warm  
**Login:** DStrider

Deep down, Dave has never liked his job. He’s never exactly enjoyed killing people, and he certainly doesn’t like having to do it day after day. It’s simply his existence; it’s all he’s ever known. He supposes that, if he really wanted to, he could leave. Certainly, there are better jobs for him. He doesn't necessarily need to do much to stay entertained. A standard factory job would keep him going, and it would come with more financial stability than whatever he's got now.

Yet, whenever he thinks of leaving, he remembers Dirk.

He can't, in good and clear conscience, leave his younger brother to fend for himself in the world of Bloodseeker mercenary work. It's dangerous enough with two fairly powerful Bloodseekers; having a party of one is simply suicidal.

He stays.

Every year, he promises himself he'll change. And, without fail, every year, he fails to live up to that promise.

It's how he ends up here, in the middle of a bustling bar, up to his eyeballs in booze. He staggers about, catching himself on a nearby table. He speaks freely, calling out words that nobody but himself can truly understand. Words fly across the overlaid display of his shades, voices overlapping one another chaotically. “You really want to try and go against me? Do you _know_ what sort of shit I could do?” He's cockier when he's drunk; he's confident.

The unknown man in front of him shrugs. “Does it look like I care? You were hittin’ on my wife. Ain't a single man on this planet with that privilege but me.” A woman tries to catch his arm, but he shoves her aside. A punch is thrown.

The battle begins.

Dave laughs. Deep down, beneath layers of outward composure, he's a child. He's a twenty-some-year-old child, a little boy without the chance to truly understand the world, and a child raised to use his fists before his mouth. The other man's punch flies past him by miles, and his own fists are crushing facial bones within seconds. Blood splatters from the stranger's broken nose, flying in the air and falling upon Dave's white button-up.

 _“Shit. That's Dirk's. He's gonna kill me for that.”_ The thought dully resonates in the back of Dave's head.

Another punch. Bones feel like butter against his knuckles. He can't tell if the blood on his fist is his own or his opponent’s, but the innate programming of his genetic mutation calls for more blood. Somewhere, he's aware this is wrong; somehow, he doesn't want to keep going, but a primal urge pushes him ahead. He lands blow after blow, until there's a pool of blood beneath the man under his knee. Until he feels the sharp pain of a large needle in his side.

He stumbles back, groaning, and turns to the source. “Rose?”

“I didn't want to do that, but you simply weren't listening to me. I do apologize, dear.” The woman before him—round hips, lightly tanned skin, blond hair, and a face covered with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose—shakes her head. “Ah. The downer drug is working. Really, David, I apologize for this. You're quite the violent drunk, aren't you? Perhaps your genetic conditioning is simply uninhibited when you're inebriated.”

Dave sways on his feet. His eyelids feel heavy, and his limbs simply fail to respond. He falls, and is caught by Rose.

“I see. You react to drugs like you react to liquor. Poorly.” These are the last words Dave hears (or, rather, reads) for about an hour.

**Login:** KVantas

When Karkat exits into the living area, as he's now being allowed to do, he finds himself faced with an odd image.

Dave is spread out on the sofa, with a wet cloth over his forehead. His eyelids seem to be stuck half open, and his mouth hangs slightly open. His signing is loose and informal, a far cry from the usually crisp and meticulous motions he uses. His response, much like the conversation that preceded it, is lost on Karkat.

Dirk's reply, however, is not. “Look,” he says, pacing the room, “I don't give a shit what you do on your free time, bro. What's irking me beyond belief is your unfathomable stupidity. You just go out there and get slammed, and it usually ends with me calling up Jake for favors. We can't keep doing this. You can't just randomly beat the shit out of people. _Even if they deserve it_. And—” A pause. Now, wearing a sleeveless top, Karkat can see the faded orange tribal tattoos that run the length of both of Dirk's arms. He meets the man's gaze, and Dirk quickly stares at the floor. “Oh. Hey. Sorry to wake you up at this hour.”

Karkat shrugs. He opens the fridge and peeks inside, quickly settling upon a pre-packaged serving of applesauce. He rips off the covering and takes a spoon from the utensil drying rack. Afterwards, not wanting to take part in any more of this awkward discussion, he quickly retreats to his room.

* * *

**24 May 2033**  
**Weather:** Hot, Humid, Cloudy  
**Login:** KVantas

“Hey?” Dave's voice draws Karkat's attention. The man stands in the doorway, with what appears to be a plate of scrambled eggs and sausage in his hand. His shirt is tied around his waist, exposing a toned, scar-covered chest. The most apparent of these blemishes is a wide, jagged line, which runs diagonally from his right shoulder to his left hip. Much like Dirk, both of his arms are covered in tribal tattoos, though his are done in vivid red ink, almost like blood. He sets the plate down at the end of Karkat's bed. He holds his fist, with the palm facing inwards, at chest height, and moves it in a few clockwise circles. “Sorry.”

“For what?” inquires Karkat, eagerly pouncing on his provided meal. “The argument yesterday? I don't really know what it was about. And, frankly, I don't give a fuck. It's none of my business.”

Dave seems startled by the reply. His brows furrow, and he opens his mouth to speak, only to seemingly decide against it. Instead, he shrugs. “Did you... ah... Did you read the book?”

“I've started it.” Karkat raises his own fist to shoulder height, then bends it at the wrist, as if knocking on a door. He repeats the movement twice. [Yes.]

For the briefest of moments, a grin spreads across Dave's face. It's gone before Karkat can memorize it. “Thank you. I don't really like talking.”

“You worry too fucking much, Strider. You sound fine. Hell, you sound better than some of the other marble-chewing shitholes I've run into.”

“You can call me Dave.”

“I'll keep that in mind.” Karkat looks up. “You and your brother don't really have me on a tight guard schedule. You're both aware that I could easily wander off, back onto the streets, and neither of you would be any wiser.”

[Yes.] From Dave, a shrug. He takes the notebook from its place in the side table. After flipping to a clean page, he scribbles a reply. {If you leave, you leave. We don't really give a fuck. You're not going to run. You're being provided food and safe shelter, and we both know those aren't easy things to find in Skaia.} The wry smirk punctuating the statement shows that Dave knows what he's saying. Regardless of how the situation may be looked at, staying with the two is the best available option.

And, after a sigh, Karkat begrudgingly admits it. “Fine. Laugh it up, you hillbilly fuckwit. I'm trapped! I'm just amazed that either of you make any money. You both seem too fucking soft. Softer than I'd ever guess a pair of Bloodseekers would be, at least.”

Dave's brows furrow. When he writes, he presses against the page harder. A sense of anger bleeds through. His shoulders are tensely squared, and his jaw is set. {We're more prone to violence, but I still care about some shit. We'd rather let our captives have a pleasant time with us. The people who abuse their bounties just get blackballed by authorities.} After a few moments, he flips the page. {Besides, you're a decent guy. I'd really hate to have to kick your ass.}

Trying to diffuse the situation, Karkat offers a nervous laugh. “Yeah, well I'll admit you could easily do that. I'm just a defenseless little spoiled brat.”

“You are,” Dave counters, his voice flat.

“How much are they offering for me?”

“A lot.”

“That's not a fucking answer, smartass.”

“Don't remember.”

Karkat sighs. He folds his arms across his chest and shakes his head. “You could've just admitted that.”

“More fun to mess with you.” With this, Dave purses his lips. He's done speaking aloud, it seems. His actions only confirm this. He writes in his notebook once more. (Frankly, it disappoints Karkat. He can't put a finger on why, but there's just something calming about Dave's voice. Maybe it's the familiarity.) He pauses, apparently second-guessing what he's written. He takes the page, rips it from the book, and balls it up, placing the rejected message in his pocket. Instead, he shows something else: {If you'd like to go outside some time, let me know. I can show you around the city.}

“I hate to say that that sounds like a tantalizing offer, but it does. I know absolute shit about what's around here, and I'd like to at least understand where I am. Honestly, I've never been outside of the gates of the family grounds until now.”

Dave raises a brow.

“I never needed to. I'm sure you know how fucking cushy it is up there, on that stupid hill. The only thing we had to worry about were snipers, and none of the guns that are on the market can pierce the glass of those windows.” In a way, he's almost disgusted by how he speaks of his home. It's almost as if he's proud. In some ways, he is. From a purely architectural standpoint, the estate is a landmark. It's one of the few decent-looking places in Skaia. Yet, in every other respect, it's a luxury prison. “I mean, I left. That's obvious, right? And I'm sure my parents think I've been abducted, but it's not like they've really cared about me until I wasn't there. Y'know? Probably... not...” Drawing his knees to his chest, Karkat sighs. He looks to Dave, only to see a look of understanding on his face.

There's a stretch of strained silence, during which Dave furiously writes in his notebook. When he's done, however, he doesn't bother to stay and hear a reply. Instead, he drops the answer on Karkat's bed, collects the now-empty plate, and leaves.

{Same boat here. My brother and I weren't wanted until we left, and even then it wasn't by our parents. We got out of there as soon as we could. Not like we ever knew our mother, and our father was a douchebag. Maybe, at some point, I admired him. I guess. I don't really know. Once we left, he was furious. He left Skaia, and got killed in a skirmish in some other city, far away from this quarantine dump. People want us for our services, nothing else. Sometimes it bothers me. Don't tell Dirk.}


	4. Luncheon on the Grass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, in which one gets a glimpse into the lives of Skaian mercenaries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [link to the art](https://www.manet.org/luncheon-on-the-grass.jsp)

**27 May 2033**  
**Weather:** Humid, Warm, Semi-cloudy  
**Login:** KVantas

When Karkat wakes, he finds the spot that Dave often occupies has been taken by someone else. He finds an unfamiliar pair of orange eyes staring at him, and a strange look of apathy on the man’s face. Normally, with Dave, there’s a sense of warmth. Instead, he’s met with a cold indifference.

“Oh.” Dirk stirs. He sets aside the newspaper and looks to his captive. “You’ve woken up. Dave went to complete a minor contract. He’ll be back soon. He told me to watch you while he was gone, something about not wanting you to feel isolated. I guess I admire how kind he is. Peculiar, right? It should be him admiring me, perhaps, but that’s no skin off of my nose.”

“Is he in danger?” These are the first words to leave Karkat’s mouth. He finds that his heart palpitates uncomfortably against his chest. Every beat feel like a blow to the ribs.

Dirk responds with a snort of laughter. “Dave isn’t powerful enough in his own Herculean right. He might not be a mythical Gilgamesh, but he’s no slouch. Don’t worry about him. He’ll be fine.”

**Login:** DStrider

McDougall was supposed to be an easy contract. A one-hit kill. He’s not even a Bloodseeker, so how...?

“You’re past your prime, Strider,” grumbles a pale, broad-shouldered man. He rubs his stubble-covered chin with one hand, and keeps a firm grip on his pistol with the other. “Bloodseekers like you? You’re lucky to make it to thirty. And you’re, what? Twenty-five?”

Dave spits. He squirms, struggling to free himself from beneath an iron-toed boot. He reaches for a bottle of pills, only for a bullet to scatter them to the wind. He feels his sense of pain returning. Once dimmed by the effects of the potent grist pills, it now calls for his attention.

He takes stock. At least one bruised rib, a glancing bullet wound to the scalp, and a sprained wrist.

“Why bother fighting? The war is over. You’re not needed, now. You and all the rest of them. You’re just the scraps, left behind by a system that doesn’t want you anymore.” The percussion of a gunshot rattles Dave’s bones, and a venomous smile creeps onto McDougall’s face. “That was a warning. This is your message.”

A bullet pierces Dave’s shoulder. He stifles a yell.

“Leave or die, mutant.” McDougall ends with a blow to the head and a bone-crushing stomp against his left leg.

Stars swim in Dave’s vision. He tries to stand, but only manages a few stumbled steps before falling against a cold stone wall.

His good hand reaches up, grasping at the bullet wound. Warm blood oozes forth, staining his shirt and filling in the space beneath his nails. It’s an unnervingly familiar feeling.

The wound isn’t fatal. With his advanced healing, it will likely be completely mended in a few days. But, it hurts.

His shades were broken with the final attack. The overlaid display flashes with glitched messages and erroneous graphics. After a few minutes, he simply removes them, slipping them into his breast pocket for safekeeping.

He wanders the alleyways with purpose. Only on doctor treats Bloodseekers. He’s needed her service enough times to memorize an efficient route from any part of the slums.

By the time he reaches the small practice, his vision is swimming. He can’t tell if it’s caused by the pain of dragging himself down the streets with a broken leg, or blood loss. Either way, he’s greeted by the same person.

A tall woman, with medium brown skin and sparkling green eyes, greets him. She smiles as she adjusts her round glasses, and she speaks, but Dave doesn’t know what she says. After a moment, she offers a different approach: [You sure have gotten yourself into a mess this time, Dave. Another contract gone wrong? You’re getting to the age where you should start to think about taking up an easier job.]

Dave rolls his eyes. He allows the woman to lead him to the closest available bed. He doesn’t watch her work; instead, he focuses on the slowly spinning ceiling fan. [I know, Jade. You’re not my mom. Cut me some slack.]

[Broken leg and a pretty nasty shoulder injury. You’ll be down for a few days.] Jade shakes her head. [How long ago did you take a dose of grist? You’re looking paler than usual. I’ll get you some once I get this bullet out of you.]

Dave offers a nervous laugh. [Thank you.] He nearly knocks the tweezers from Jade’s hand with his signing. [You’re a lifesaver.]

Judging by the expression on her face, Jade is laughing. [Yes. That’s typically the job description for a doctor. Now, stop moving. You’re making it hard to work.]

**Login:** KVantas

Dave returns around noon. He limps inside, with one arm in a sling and the other clutching a crutch.

Dirk barely stirs. He moves only to take what appears to be Dave’s broken shades from his pocket. He gestures to Dave, and Karkat doesn’t understand what he says beyond a few random words. “Hurt” is signed a few times, and he catches “want”, but everything else is above his skill level.

Likewise, when Dave responds, he simply can’t parse anything. With the bandaged arm and limited movement, he doesn’t have enough context to create meaning from the motions. So, instead, he waits.

He waits, watching as Dave stumbles into his room, then slumps to the floor. Without his shades on, his eyes are visible. Both are a vibrant red, though one seems to be stuck in a permanently contracted state. His gaze wanders, never settling upon Karkat, until it eventually focuses on an upward-jutting nail in the floorboards.

He waits.

Eventually, he works up the nerve to take the notebook from its place in the side table drawer. He writes in it. {I don’t know tiddly-shit about signing, so I’m going to write. Is that okay?} he turns the page to face Dave.

The other man nods.

Karkat flips to a fresh page. {Are you okay? I mean. Fuck. That’s probably the dumbest question on this side of the planet, but it’s a question. You look like you’ve been thoroughly masticated by the largest feline on the planet, then excreted as a steaming pile of putrid shit.} He hands both the notebook and the pen to Dave.

After a moment, the response is returned. {Got my ass handed to me. Not the worst beatdown I’ve ever been on the receiving end of. I’ve broken more important bones plenty of times. Like my back. Multiple times. Anyhow, Dirk is pretty pissed that I flubbed the contract.}

Karkat snarls. {That’s what he’s worried about?}

{We get our asses kicked back and forth all the time. It ain’t that much of a deal. You’re just seeing this for the first time. Makes everyone flip a little shit. Don’t sweat about it.} As he hands back the book, Dave pops a single pill into his mouth. He chews.

{Was that grist?}

{Absolutely. You didn’t know? Probably not. Bloodletters need a constant supply of it. Part of the mutation. We’re literally grist or die.} Dave offers a nonchalant shrug with the notebook. It’s horrifying how indifferent he is to his own survival. He tacks on a laugh.

At around this point, the door opens. Dirk enters, wordlessly passes over the repaired shades, and leaves. He slams the door shut behind himself.

As he often does, Dave runs his finger along the arm of his shades. {You can talk, now.}

Karkat nods. “You're worringly casual about dying, dipshit. So...?”

{Everyone dies one day. Why should it bother me? I cause death and stare it down every other day. I'm used to it. Sometimes, I forget that other people aren't. Sorry.}

“Is there any easier way for us to talk than this?” Karkat finds himself rubbing the back of his neck. “I really hate this back-and-forth dance. It's just... impersonal, I fucking suppose. Maybe that's not the most precise term for how it feels, but I can't be assed to figure out what the perfect phrase to describe how awkward this all feels is.”

Dave holds both hands up, with the index fingers straight up, wrists angled so that they point slightly inward, to each other. He moves his hands in two small circles—clockwise, as if pedaling a bike down the street—starting at his chest, and moving outward. [Sign language.]

“Yeah? Thanks for the smart-ass answer, asshole. I knew that much. I'm not learning it overnight.”

{You're asking me to talk?}

The frankness of the reply takes Karkat by surprise. He hems and haws aloud, now avoiding eye contact. “I guess I am?”

{That's not happening. Get used to me writing, or keep your mouth shut. Your choice.} The letters are written impatiently, with the letters formed by aggressive strokes. Rather than flip the page, Dave simply rips it out. {It's as annoying for me as it is for you. Suck it up.}

“Y-yeah... Okay...” Karkat bites his lip. He supposes that his suggestion was rude; the more he thinks about it, the more inconsiderate it seems. “Do you mind leaving me along for a while?”

“Nah.” Dave sneezes. He wipes his nose on the tattered sleeve of his jacket, and departs without further commentary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re enjoying this story, please consider buying the Gangsta manga and watching the anime on Hulu! :)


	5. Alabama and Kearsarge (Edouard Manet)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, in which motives are established.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [link to the painting](https://www.manet.org/alabama-and-kearsarge.jsp)

**28 May 2033**  
**Weather:** Warm, Dry, Windy  
**Login:** KVantas

Early in the morning, Karkat was roused from his sleep. He was told that the trio was running low on groceries, and that he was to be ready and dressed within the next ten minutes. He was provided a pre-selected outfit, complete with musty bandages to wrap around his face.

Now, he trudges alongside Dirk, staring at the ground as they weave their way through the densely packed streets. Dave is a few paces behind.

“My brother says you're a pretty nice guy,” Dirk comments. “Hope you never do anything to make him change his mind about that.”

Considering that these are the first substantive words Dirk has ever spoken to Karkat, it takes the man a moment to compose himself. “I don't think I will,” he mumbles. “I'd really prefer to not be murdered by you or him, and especially not by him.” Karkat jerks a thumb in Dave's direction. “Anyhow, it's fucking rude of us to be talking about him, isn't it? He doesn't know what we're saying, does he?”

“Nope. Bloodseekers are all born with a price for our power. He's been Deaf as a doorknob his entire life. I taught him how to speak, or how to fake it, at least. He might know what we're saying, though. Not sure if his glasses are on or not. Either way, he really wouldn't give a shit.” Dirks words are delivered in complete deadpan. There's little affection to them, though the look in his eyes certainly reflects some sort of fondness. “Anyhow—”

A soft thud interrupts the discussion. Both men turn to view the source.

Dave, now kneeling on the ground, leans against his crutch. Blood dribbles from the side of his mouth; when he coughs, droplets splatter the cobblestone beneath him. “Fuck.” The word is clearly articulated. “Fuck,” he repeats.

Dirk sighs. As he passes Karkat, he offers him a pat on the shoulder. From his pocket, he draws a bottle of pills. He dumps a few into his hand, and offers them to his older brother. “There's a bench nearby. Wanna' sit for a few?” The inquiry gets no response, so he reverts to signing.

From Dave, there comes a nod.

Dirk gestures for Karkat. And, after Dave is settled, he continues, “The glasses aren't on. Back to what I was saying. Go easy on him. He's probably dying.”

Karkat freezes. Nothing on Dirk's face seems to indicate that he's joking; then again, nothing seems indicative of any sort of emotion. “You're shitting around, right? He seems fine to me.”

“We have different parents,” Dirk explains. He breathes out a plume of smoke. His cigarette hangs loosely between his fingers. When he speaks, it falls. “The basic gist of it is that I'm less genetically fucked than he is. He's more powerful, of course. If he wanted to, he could rip my limbs off like toilet paper, even in this state. But that comes with a trade-off. Everything does, right? He's got maybe three years left, and that's if we're lucky. I've already forked out for a lung transplant. He's starting to reject those.” Only now does Dirk stoop to pick up his cigarette. He rolls it between his fingers, watching as the ash at the end is scattered to the wind. “If I really wanted to fix him, it'd be millions. All I can really do for him is let him do as he pleases for what time he's got left.”

A knot forms in Karkat's throat. His stomach twists. He barely knows either of these men, yet he's already sympathetic to their plight. “He can't hear this, can he?”

Dirk frowns. His brows crease, and his free hand forms a fist tight enough to lighten the tanned complexion of his knuckles. “Look at him, Vantas. He knows. A few years ago, the wounds he has now would've been gone by today.”

Admittedly, Dave _does_ look pretty bad. His shoulders are thinner than Dirk's, and his eyes seem perpetually sunken in. The flow of blood from his mouth has dried, but the stray cough still comes out. When he realizes everyone is looking at him, he forces a smile. “‘M fine,” he mumbles. “Don’ave t’ worry ‘bout me.”

Dirk, too, offers a hollow smile. When he signs, he speaks the words aloud. “Yeah. I know. Take a breather, dumbass.”

Dave nods.

“So... You said you could cure him?” Karkat asks.

“By nature, the lifespan of the standard Bloodseeker is fifty. The oldest in history was fifty-two. We can extend his lifespan, but it's like putting a bandage on a head that's been cracked like an egg. It's just something to make us feel better. The only cure for us is death. But, if you really want to know, there's a procedure to lessen the mutation. Like I said,” Dirk sucks on his cigarette, “It's too pricey for our blood. You're our last hope of getting it, really. And...”

Dave whistles. “You're makin’ ‘im feel bad, Dirk.” The way he says his brother's name is oddly childlike, especially coming from a proven mercenary. The sound of the ‘K’ is closer to a hard ‘G’, and the ‘R’ is more akin to a drawled ‘W’. “Lay off.”

“When did you start eavesdropping, bro?” Dirk quirks a brow.

Dave shrugs. He raises his hands to say more, only to double over and vomit up a stream of fresh blood.

“Shit. You shouldn't have come out in this shape, Dave. Come on, we're getting you home.” The speed with which Dirk rushes to his brother's side speaks to affections he never lets show. “I'll finish up the groceries. Vantas, do you mind watching him in the meantime?”

Dumbstruck, Karkat does little more than shake his head.

**Login:** DStrider

Admittedly, it _was_ a little stupid to be wandering around while he's healing. Bloodseekers typically have a downtime after severe injuries, and they're not supposed to be out and about while they regenerate. Still, Dave didn't exactly like the idea of forcing his brother to do the daily chores. After all, he's the older brother. He should be the one providing for Dirk. So, why, then, does it have to be the other way around?

He sighs. From his spot on the floor of the living room, he draws his good knee to his chest. He leans against the sofa and stares at the ceiling.

“I don't know if it will help, but I'm guessing your throat is pretty sore. I made some tea.” When Dave looks, he sees Karkat. In the man's outstretched hand is a steaming cup of tea. He takes it gingerly, watching as the reply appears on the overlay of his shades. “So... Is what Dirk said true? You're—?”

Dave nods.

“Oh. Sorry.”

[Don't be. I've known it for years.] After a few minutes of silence, being met with little more than a confused stare, Dave groans. “You don't understand me. That's okay. I don't think a lot of people do.” At the bottom of his vision, he sees his own caption displayed: Unable to translate, speech unintelligible. He shudders. “Can you... When I'm talking, can you understand me?”

First, Karkat looks confused. Then, his expression softens to a nervous smile. “I can figure out enough to know what you're saying. Fuck. Sorry. Was that rude?”

“No, it was honest. I appreciate that. I know I'm hard to understand. It's hard to speak when you've never heard yourself.” In his mind, Dave would like to imagine that he sounds perfectly fluent. He'd like to imagine his voice is as smooth and articulate as anyone else's, but he's keenly aware that this isn't the case. “There are plenty of other Bloodseekers, but none I've ever met were Deaf. It seems I'm the only one.”

“I can't really relate,” admits Karkat. He sits down, beside Dave, and folds his arms across his chest. There's something cute about the way his brows furrow, and how the edges of his lips twitch, flickering between an affectionate half-smile and a pensive frown. “But nobody understood me at home. I didn't want to run the family. I just wanted to be a kid, you know? And I never got a fucking chance. So, I guess we're both on that sinking ship. Nobody ever listened to me, and it sounds to me like very few people bother listening to you.”

“Hit the nail on the head.” Dave signs the saying as he speaks.

Karkat mirrors the motion tentatively. He moves with the unpolished, halting sign of someone just learning. It's not much, but it's a start. [Thank you.]

One sign mastered, at least.

“No problem.”

* * *

**29 May 2033**  
**Weather:** Humid, Clear  
**Login:** DirkS

Dirk sits at a small table in a cramped apartment. Every available spot seems to be piled high with books, with pathways and sitting areas carved out by their absence. Across from him, sipping a cup of tea, is a distant cousin, Rose Lalonde. She happens to be one of the few licensed surgeons willing to operate on Bloodletters, and, even so...

“I understand your concern, and I would simply love to do the work _pro bono_ , but I just can't. It's too risky, the supplies cost a fortune, and, frankly, I'm uncertain his body could handle the strain.” As always, she's upfront. She cuts no corners, and refuses to lessen any blows, even if it might bring comfort to her client. “You're not still making him work, are you? We both know that will only hasten his demise.”

“He wants to help, Rose. What am I supposed to do? Lock him in a cell until he dies?” Dirk pushes away his cup of coffee. “I'm not thirsty. What's the price standing at, now?”

“Six hundred million. And that's as cheap as I can possibly go. There's no profit for me, there. That's just the cost of the supplies and the materials I'll need. His blood type, AB, doesn't help. Simply getting my hands on enough to cover the duration of the operations is a chore. And, again, I cannot reiterate enough that this could end up killing him faster. We're removing his heart, Dirk, it's not like we're setting a bone. He could very well—” Rose doesn't get a chance to finish.

“He's my older brother, dammit!” Dirk stands suddenly. He hurls his mug across the room, shuddering at it shatters into what seems like a thousand pieces. Powder. It's turned to powder. “I should be protecting him, and you're telling me I can't even manage to risk something that could give him just a little bit longer to live?”

Rose sighs. She averts her gaze. “Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying. I'm sorry.”

“But, if I can scrape up the money, you'd do it?”

“I would. Yes. I care for Dave as much as you do. Everyone who knows him does. Somehow, in spite of his lifestyle, he's a kind man. He cares for others, and he'll stand up for those he believes in. Those are qualities that are hard to find in Skaia. It would be a loss for the whole city when he passes, but...” She covers her face. A single sob escapes her, but nothing more comes. “Dirk, believe me, I want this to work as much as you do.”

The rage building in Dirk's chest suddenly releases. He sinks to the floor, onto his knees, and groans. “He's getting worse. He lost a fight to someone who's not even a goddamned Bloodseeker. Jade told you, didn't she?”

“Yes.” Rose takes out a notepad. She scribbles something on it, rips off the first page, and hands it to Dirk. After a moment of searching her pockets, she also passes over a few thousand dollars, in cash. “Put him on oxygen at night. This should cover you for about a month.”

With the prescription and cash in hand, Dirk turns to leave. “Thanks, Rose.”

“You should know better than anyone that you can't save everyone.”

Dirk shrugs. He suppresses a wry smile. “I guess I don't learn from my mistakes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as an aside, i don't plan on this being a downer story, so that's a plus.


	6. Orchestra Musicians (Edgar Degas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, in which a trace of conflict arises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [a link to the painting](https://www.edgar-degas.org/Orchestra-Musicians.html). Retcon note: I’ve been doing this backwards. Oops. Dave’s older. Dirk’s younger. Whoopsie doopsie poopsie.

**1 June 2033**  
**Weather:** Severe Storm  
**Login:** KVantas

The wind rattles the windows in their frames, and each gust seems to tip the already precarious ten-story building further towards falling. Rain batters the plywood cover of the windows, seeping through cracks in the glass. As a man who has never been fond of storms, weathering one in a ramshackle place such as this is causing anxiety. He tries to distract himself, watching Dave as he remains stoic in the face of the danger.

The man sits on the floor, as always. A cannula beneath his nose feeds him oxygen from a nearby canister. He clutches his injured leg, uttering only occasional whimpers of pain.

“‘T's late. Aren’you gonna’ sleep?” Dave cocks his head to the side. He staggers to his feet, swaying slightly, but otherwise doing better than before. “Storm's nothin’.”

“They're blaring those alert sirens like it's the apocalypse!” counters Karkat, jumping at a sudden clap of thunder.

“Didn’ notice.” Dave rubs behind his right ear.

Heat rushes to Karkat’s cheeks. He takes the notebook from its usual place and pens a reply. {You don’t mind storms?}

Dave takes the pages carefully. {The only thing need to be afraid of with those is the lightning. I don’t much give a shit about anything else.}

Karkat nods. He supposes that it makes sense. If Dave can’t hear what’s happening, why care? {Have you always been a mercenary?}

Dave nods.

{Do you actually fucking like it?}

After a moment of thought, Dave shakes his head. He motions for the notebook, then writes his answer. {I know Dirk told you about me. I mean, it’s true. Both my parents were Bloodseekers. But I’m sorry he guilt tripped you. When I was younger, I wanted to be an artist. Dad didn’t like that too much. I still do art when I have spare time and cash.}

Karkat settles into bed. He rolls over, onto his side, and gestures to the open spot at the end of the mattress. {You don’t have to sit on the floor.}

{I like it down here. It makes me feel safe.}

“Fine.” Karkat speaks aloud, unsure if his words are heard. He runs his fingers through his hair and tries his best to clear his mind. [Good bye.] He doesn’t yet know a more polite way to tell Dave to leave.

The Bloodseeker, however, seems unperturbed. He offers an obedient bow, and departs without fuss.

* * *

**3 June 2033**  
**Weather:** Overcast, Humid, Warm  
**Login:** KVantas

Dave's wounds have healed. He's returned to his usual line of work, and is out on an assignment with Dirk. As such, Karkat has been left in charge of answering any incoming emails or calls. Thus far, the day has been quiet, but that changes around noon. The phone rings, and Karkat picks it up. He rattles off the speech he was told to give: “You've reached Strider and Strider for Hire. You name it, we maim it. Both of the Strider brothers are currently unavailable. Would you like to leave a message?”

A man's voice, thick with a bastardized Cockney accent, responds. (It sounds much like what a person who has never heard a Cockney accent would sound like when attempting to reproduce one. Or, perhaps, a more apt point would be to say it sounds like Dick Van Dyke's accent in _Mary Poppins_.) “You're an unfamiliar chap. I suppose it was a poor time to call, then? Never mind that. My name is Detective Jake English. I'd like to leave a message for my lovely Dirk.”

“This isn't a fucking phone sex line, sir, just tell me your message.” Karkat groans.

“Very well!” The man is unperturbed by the harsh reply. “Dave's supply of pure grist pills is ready. I rallied the support of a few good mates, down in the precinct jail, and they provided them to me at no cost. This is fine stuff, my good man. Very high quality. I'm sure that whatever is ailing Dave will be ancient history once he starts these. And, of course, you never heard this from me. I shall deposit your supply in the compartment of the mailbox on third and eleventh street, downtown, as requested. Anyhow, farewell.” The line goes dead.

Karkat breathes out the breath he'd been holding during the entire exchange. He sets down the message, carefully written on the form he'd been provided, in the appropriate plastic desk filing slot, then returns to poking around. Much of what he finds is of little interest. There are discarded pens everywhere, and a stack of old notebooks is crammed into the desk's lower side cabinet. Each is carefully labeled. _Conversation Log 2021_ , _Conversation Log 2022_ , _Conversation Log 2023_ , and so on. Each is filled with idly written commentary, alternating between Dave's distinctively sloppy work, and careful, rounded letters—presumably, Dirk. Unopened cigarette cartons are stored in the drawer, and old job details are meticulously maintained in the upper portion of the filing cabinet.

However, one thing does catch his eye. After about an hour, he notices a piece of paper. It's shoved beneath the phone, but carefully folded. He takes it out, opens it up, and finds himself staring at a carefully rendered pencil sketch of his own face. He looks serious, with his brows furrowed together and his mouth slightly open. His eyes are closed. Perhaps, when this was done, he was sleeping? To the side of the image, penned in red ink, is a note. “29 May 2033.”

A low hum escapes Karkat. He folds the page, then puts it back where he found it. He leans back in the worn out office chair, and idly practices finger-spelling. [A... B... C... D...] He fumbles at ‘E’, and starts over. Flipping open the book he'd been given, he references the illustrations. Again, he begins, [A... B... C... D... E... F...]

**Login:** DStrider

The final act of battle. The end of a fight. It's something that always gets Dave's heart pounding, but he's never known why. Growing up, he was always scolded for being a lover, not a fighter. No, Dirk was more adept than he ever could be when it came to such matters. It's why his younger sibling, technically unrelated in any way, was even adopted. They were both the proteges of a long-dead military officer, whose need for Bloodseekers drove him to adopt and procreate with grist-addicted prostitutes. Since he was born, he was labeled a failure. Too soft. Too sentimental. Too _weak_. And, yet...

He comes down on his opponent hard, slamming the man's head into the hard concrete. Bones crumble, like wooden blocks, beneath his grip. Blood splashes, covering his clothing. Despite jumping off a roof to achieve this victory, he's unscathed. He straightens, wiping his dirtied hand on his black pants, before looking to his brother.

Dirk nods, approvingly, and smiles.

It fills Dave with pride. All he's ever wanted in life was acceptance. He craves acknowledgement, and recognition for what he's done. Sure, it's taken murder to obtain it, but he'll take something over nothing. _Someone_ is proud of him, and _someone_ appreciates him. That's all he needs to keep going. A loose two-finger salute to his younger sibling serves as a clear reply—message received—and he stands back.

He lets Dirk do the negotiating.

“Good. Those grist dealers were fucking with my clients. Shame we had to kill them, but I guess that's just how it is.” The balding, middle-aged client shakes his head. He turns his nose up at the body in the alleyway, and his thin lips twist into a smile. “No loss to society, of course. Your brother performed perfectly. So, about payment, we agreed upon five thousand. I think I'll bump you up to ten, though. You simply did splendid.”

“Thank you.” Dirk swiftly pockets the cash. “Be sure to tell others and recommend our services, sir.”

“I will,” agrees the older man. He turns to Dave, and his eyes narrow. “Truly ruthless, your brother. A real asset in this city. If anything, I would hate to get onto his bad side.”

“That's pretty hard to do,” Dirk smiles. He says more, but Dave's attentions have been drawn away, now.

He finds himself making eye contact with a young girl—six years old, maybe seven. She cowers behind her mother, looking upon Dave with a gaze that pierces him to the core. He looks down, to his blood-covered hands, and sheaths his maroon-stained sword. _“Is this what I've become?”_ he asks himself, _“Some sort of scary story, to tell your kids at night? Is that all I'll ever be?”_

Someone grabs his wrist. When he looks up, he meets the cheerful gaze of their client. An additional thousand dollars is pressed into a palm still sticky with drying blood. A knot forms in his throat. From the depths of his soul, words rise. Thoughts, long unspoken but carefully harbored and repressed, surge to the surface; they pass from his lips before he has time to react. “I don't want your fucking money.” He throws the bills to the ground, turns, and storms off.

Dirk's voice, helpfully captioned, follows shortly thereafter. “Thank you for your business, sir. I'm not sure what's gotten into him.”

“Bloodseeker fever, probably. Poor boy's lost his mind.”

Again, someone grabs his wrist. From the looseness of the grasp, and the warmth of the hand, he knows it's Dirk. He pulls free, but he still gives his brother the courtesy of hearing him out.

[Are you okay? I've never seen you that upset about something. I know that guy we just worked for was a real rat-bastard, but so is anyone that hires us, right?] Dirk is trying to smile, but it's coming across as an anxiety-riddled grimace. [Was it something I did?]

Dave holds his right hand up, at shoulder height. He holds his index and middle fingers out straight, at a ninety degree angle to his palm, and brings his thumb to touch them. [No.]

[Then what was it?] Dirk staggers a few paces ahead. He stands in front of his brother, cutting him off. Even now, so many years after they met, he's at least a foot shorter. [Talk to me.]

[I just killed someone I don't know. Who fucking has a clue who knew that kid? He probably has a mom, and a dad, and maybe brothers and sisters. And they're waiting for him to come home, and I fucking killed him for trying to survive.] The words spill from Dave's fingertips. A weight on his chest, something he's always sensed but never addressed, seems to inexplicably lighten as he continues. [Is this all we're going to do, up until the moment we fucking flip into the afterlife? We're just going to kill people because someone else told us to?]

Dirk responds with a visible snarl. [I know you know what's happening to you, Dave.] He uses the sign the pair conceived as a name. It's something that's rarely used, even between the two brothers; clearly, Dave's hit a nerve. [I'm doing this for you. If you don't want it, you don't have to take it. But I'm not going to sit down and wait for you to die.]

A long sigh escapes Dave. He kneads his knuckles against his inner arm. He takes a moment to think. Then, he responds, [I'm sorry.] He repeats the sign several times, stopping only when Dirk touches the back of his hand. Then, he continues, now refusing to meet his brother's gaze. [I don't mean it as a dig on you. I just mean that, maybe, I don't want to spend my last few years alive killing people. If the only way for me to live is for us to stay in this godforsaken stupid industry, I'd rather die.]

To Dave's bewilderment, Dirk speaks his reply. He can't hear his tone, but the expression on his face tells him that it isn't soft. “You're the last family I have left alive, dammit! Keeping you alive might as well be my absurd, contrarian reason to keep going. And you know damned well that trying to do anything other than mercenary work as a Bloodseeker is just a farcical dream.” Unbeknownst to Dave, Dirk's voice cracks. “You've saved my worthless ass over and over. The least I can do is try and save you.”

Failure.

It's apparent to Dave that this isn't going anywhere. He places a hand on Dirk's shoulder and smiles. [Thank you.] He withdraws his hand to continue, [I appreciate it.] He gestures for Dirk to follow him. [Come on. Let's go back home. I'm sure Karkat is getting bored, all alone in that stupid office.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm taking some (translation: many) liberties with the Gangsta plot and adding some other stuff, but still look into it if you like the whole "mercenaries that can rip you apart but are soft and lovable" stuff and be sure to drop in on the [homestuck writer's discord](https://discord.gg/QtmzruB).


	7. The Titan's Goblet (Thomas Cole)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, in which moral questions are brought up, and the price of wealth is made apparent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [link to the painting](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Cole#/media/File:Cole,_Thomas_-_Der_Pokal_des_Riesen_-_hi_res_-_1833.JPG)

**5 June 2033**  
**Weather:** Overcast, Hot  
**Login:** DStrider

Sweat causes Dave's shirt to cling to his body. His hair is soaked. Yet, he remains in his place, atop the roof of the apartment complex. By the dim light of the moon and the garish glow of the LED security light, he sketches the cityscape. Here, it's quiet. He needn't contend with the constant thrumming of passing cars beneath his feet, nor does he have to deal with the blasts of hot air from speeding trams. People don't brush against him as he walks, and nobody grabs at his legs, asking for food and money. He draws without care, stopping only when there's a shuttering resistance against his pencil. He growls, withdraws, and moves to sharpen it, only to find a familiar, medium-brown hand passing his sharpening razor to him. “Oh... Karkat?”

The man nods, then shakes his head. He holds his hand, loosely opened, with the palm facing inward, to his face. As he moves it down, toward his chin, he curls his fingers. [I couldn't sleep.]

Two fingers slide across the arm of Dave's shades. In the corner of his drawing, he writes. {I’m feeling lazy. It’s late. Do you mind if I just talk? Stop me if you don’t know what I’m saying.}

Karkat nods.

“Honestly? I hate talking. I’m sure I sound like an absolute idiot, right? Like a baby. It kind of crashes my whole mercenary image, that’s why I avoid it.” Dave sighs. Having sharpened his pencil, he now taps the eraser against his page. “I’m comfortable around you, though.”

“I hate to admit it, but I didn’t quite understand the second half of that.” Karkat has settled down on the concrete to Dave’s left.

Dave blushes. “Nothing,” he insists. “It was nothing.”

“Fat chance that I’d believe that, but I’m the idiot, here, so,” Karkat shrugs. To Dave’s relief, he drops the topic. “Do you always come up here at night?”

“Only when I can’t sleep.” Dave looks at his art. He carefully erases a few lines, and begins to fix his errors. He sketches tentatively, only laying down a line when he’s sure it’s what he wants. After all, pencils are hard to come by. “Why can’t you sleep?”

“I guess I’m just thinking about too much.” Karkat follows Dave’s lead, inching towards the edge of the roof. He dangles his legs over the edge. His eyes focus upon the heat lightning, which dances blithely from one cloud to the other. “Is what Dirk said true? That you're—?”

“Dying?” Dave supplies, smirking. It's something he's been aware of since he was five. It's just a facet of his life. “Yeah.” He shuts his notebook. When he goes to stand, the tubing under his nose pulls at him. He winces, staggering precariously on the edge for a moment. And, in that moment, his heart pounds. The adrenaline is like water, filling him with a sense of being and purpose. His smirk grows. “What of it? Doesn't really bother me.”

“You're really not afraid of dying?”

The question causes Dave to pause. Normally, he wouldn't answer. It's simply too personal of a question. Hell, what right does Karkat have to dig into his life? He's never even shared his thoughts with Dirk before, yet he feels comfortable enough to speak freely with Karkat. His hands move, forming tiny signs as he tries to puzzle out an answer. Eventually, he turns to the man. He studies his features—the way his bottom lip is shaking, and how wide his eyes have grown—as he responds. “Yeah. I guess I do. I mean... Nobody _wants_ to die. _I_ don't want to die. Do you?”

Karkat rubs the back of his neck. “Not really.”

“Exactly.” Dave shrugs. He puts his hands in his pockets and stares at the sky. Through scattered breaks in the clouds, he sees stars. “I can tell you're from the ritzy side of town, dude. You're too worried about shit you can't change.”

“But I _can_ change it,” Karkat protests. “I have the money you'd need.”

“That's fine.” Dave shrugs. His pride won't let him take the money without reason. “Thanks for the offer, but I'm turning it down.”

Karkat nods. “Okay. Well, I tried.”

* * *

**6 June 2033**  
**Weather:** Windy, Hot  
**Login:** KVantas

The awkward feelings from yesterday have yet to subside. Still, Karkat keeps up a front. He follows Dave around the grocery store, taking in the odd sight of a hulking six-foot-three man stumbling through the cramped aisles. “Any reason they're selling ammo in the grocery store?”

Dave laughs. He scribbles an answer in the notebook in his hand, then hands it to Karkat. {You need protection. Clearly, you didn't go out much before now. You can buy guns and ammunition in toy stores.}

Karkat sighs. He hands the book back and continues browsing. In all honesty, he's amazed. He'd never realized how expensive food is. A pound of rice is nearly fifty dollars. No wonder people starve. He can remember seeing paychecks for the servants. The most he ever saw was his father's adviser, paid one thousand per week. He watches Dave, as he clutches his meager three hundred dollars, and tries his best to stretch it as far as possible.

“What sort of food do you and Dirk like?” he asks, jogging to catch up.

Dave scribbles down a reply, then flashes it toward Karkat. {Hamburgers.}

Behind Dave's back, Karkat purchases a pound of ground beef and some spices. The total comes to six hundred dollars.

**Login:** DirkS

There's a part of Dirk that recognizes that, when Dave had said he wanted out of the business, he meant that _both_ of them leave. And, yet, his goal is so close. He stares at the small card he keeps in his pocket. A crudely drawn bar, colored in, with numbers written on the side. Taking into account Karkat's current bounty, and their budget, he's only ten million from his goal. It's only a few more contracts. A hundred, perhaps?

Something.

He needs something to be proud of, and keeping his brother alive seems like a pretty decent thing to take pride in, as far as he's concerned. It's how he finds himself here, _kabutowari_ in hand, staring down his heavily wounded opponent.

The man must be in his mid-thirties. His face is pale, and his straight, black hair is coated in blood. His one functional arm—the other, already mostly hacked off in his battle with Dirk—is raised, pressing a shotgun into Dirk's abdomen. “Okay. You got me. I won't steal from that place again, alright? Just don't kill me.”

“That's not what I was hired to do.” The coldness in his voice surprises even Dirk. “I was paid to kill you. So, it seems it's your time to die.”

“I stole some bread, and you're gonna kill me for it?” whimpers the other man.

Dirk shrugs. He sheathes his blade, reaches out, and easily bends the barrel of the gun upward. His eyes narrow. He knows this is wrong, and he hates himself for it. Every life he takes is another strike against him. Surely, if the afterlife is real, he carved his road to hell a decade ago. But... “Look, I have nothing against you, personally.”

His downed opponent breathes a sigh of relief, but that moment is cut short.

Dirk, preferring not to end lives in such close quarters, takes his pistol from his belt. “I'm sorry,” he means what he says. He squeezes his eyes shut at the same time that he pulls the trigger. The noise rings in his ears and, for a moment, he can hear nothing but the damning sound of murder. He wonders if this is what his brother lives with every day—a world of nothing, no sound, with only the weight of his sins upon his shoulders.

When he opens his eyes, he finds himself staring at a bloodied family photo. The man before him, whose life dribbles from the bullet wound in the center of his chest, stands alongside a woman, with two small children clinging to either arm. Dirk shakes his head. He tries to reason with himself.

_The world is cruel and unforgivable._

He returns to the storefront, where he'd received the assignment. The contractor shakes his hand and smiles at him, paying him generously. Ten thousand dollars. Clearly, this shop owner is well off.

_I sympathize with the world, because I suppose I'm the same._

Dirk pockets the money. He sits outside of the store, wiping the blood from his blade. From the pouch on his left hip, he takes a whetstone, which he uses to carefully sharpen the short sword. When it is returned to the sheath, it lets forth a resounding metallic ringing.

By the time he's done, it's too late to walk to the bank. It seems he simply got lost in his own thoughts. He begins the long walk home, unaware of the eager thieves trailing behind him.

**Login:** KVantas

It happens so quickly. In one minute, Dave and Karkat are lounging in the living room. Both are completely at ease. Karkat is browsing the local newspaper, while Dave is half-asleep on the floor. Seconds later, roused by a gunshot outside, Dave is throwing open the window. Despite Karkat's best effort, he leaps, landing below unharmed.

From the safety of the third floor, Karkat watches.

Five thieves, standard-issue criminals, surround Dirk and Dave. While Dave is armed with only a sword, Dirk had a pistol.

Two shots from Dirk downs two of the muggers.

Dave, after dodging a nail-embedded bat, pushes off of the wall behind him. The building, itself, seems to slightly shudder. He unsheathes his blade and readies it in a single, smooth movement. By the time he's reached the other side of the rather wide alleyway, the heads of two of the thieves are on the ground, separated from their bodies. There's no hesitation in his motions; with his family on the line, it's obvious that Dave will act first, and think later. It takes only one more backhanded swing of Dave's sword to end the confrontation.

Dirk collapses into Dave's arms, and the two men kneel on the ground. Their hands move, forming a conversation Karkat doesn't understand.

At the same time, Karkat can't help but wonder exactly who he's being held by. He knew they were dangerous. He was raised on cautionary tales of crossing a Bloodletter the wrong way. Never speak to them, and never so much as think of looking at them strangely, for they will surely rend your limbs from your body in seconds. To interact with them is suicide. And, yet, until now, Karkat had considered the two men (albeit, Dave moreso) rather harmless. Only now, with the facts laid out in their bloody, ruthless totality, does he recognize how much danger he's in.

Somehow, he still can't reconcile the differences between the carnage before him and what he knows. Though he's heard nothing about Dirk, save for murmurs of his single-minded capacity for murder, he's experienced nothing but praise for Dave. In his occasional wanderings outside of the building, any mention of Dave's name seems to prompt people to change. Light sparks behind their eyes, and feelings of pure hope seem to radiate from their words.

How, then, is the man below, who has just killed three men in cold blood without breaking so much as a sweat, the same?


	8. Samson and the Lion (Francesco Hayez)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, the special bond of a pair of siblings who, though technically unrelated, were, for some time, the only kindness the other had ever known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [link to the painting](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Francesco_Hayez#/media/File:Francesco_Hayez_056.jpg) / **Chapter Warnings:** Mentions of past abuse, Mentions of past alcohol abuse.

**8 June 2033  
Weather:** Windy, Warm **  
Login:** DirkS

He’s known his older brother for years, the majority’s of his life. They grew up together. Whenever he fell, Dave was always there to pick him up. He’d tell him he did a good job, even when it was obvious he hadn’t. He was a constant in a life of uncertainties. Maybe it’s unhealthy how much the two rely on one another, but it’s not as if they had anyone else to turn to for years.

“You’re gettin’ sloppy,” Dave snickers. Even after all these years, Dirk can still hear Dave’s odd accent. He knows how others feel about it, often deriding his older brother for being unintelligible or sounding stupid. But, to him, it’s comforting. It’s familiar. “Hey. Your guard. You’re droppin’ y’guard.” A blade comes down, hard, against the padded armor around Dirk’s forearm. The fabric of his patch-riddled training jacket rips. “Somethin’s botherin’ ya.”

“I’m fine,” Dirk lies. He reacts with a wild swing. Normally, Dave would dodge it. He always dodges these sort of attacks. They’re uncalculated, stupid, joking swings, like soft punches during a play fight. And, somehow, he doesn’t.

“OW! Fuck!” Dave stumbles back, falling. He clutches a wound across his chest. It’s a shallow, superficial wound, but it makes up for its depth in size. It spans from just beneath his breastbone to his left hip.

“I-I thought you’d get out of the way,” Dirk panics. His shortsword clatters to the ground. He rushes over, pulling supplies from the first aid kit over his shoulder out as he runs. “Damn.”

Dave offers a wavering smile. He pulls himself up, to his feet, and stumbles into the shade, where he then slumps to the ground. [My fault. We probably should’ve just used wooden swords today. I didn’t get much sleep last night.]

“God. I feel like shit.”

[It’s not a big deal, bro. I didn’t react fast enough. That’s my fault.] Dave pauses. He cocks his head to the side. “‘Ey. Don’worry ‘bout it.” When he has Dirk’s attention, he continues, [It barely hurts. Here, give me the bandages.] He wraps the wound expertly.

Dirk, meanwhile, bites on his lip. His heart sinks further with every passing second. “You should’ve dodged that, bro. You’re like Hercules. You _always_ dodge it. I should’ve...”

Dave reaches out and claps his hand over his brother’s mouth. After a few seconds, he pulls away. [It’s not a bad wound. I’ll be fine. Calm down.] He staggers to his feet, wincing as he straightens his back. [Dirk?] His signing is so soft, now, so inexplicably gentle. It’s how he’s always spoken to Dirk when he knows he’s upset. His motions are slow and calculated, taking up less space than usual. It’s what Dirk supposes would be the equivalent of a soft, saccharine voice. [You didn’t hurt me, okay?]

Dirk nods.

Dave sits on the edge of the roof, motioning for Dirk to sit beside him.

It brings back memories. As children, the two would often sneak to the roof together, away from their overbearing father. Sometimes, when he was able to, Dave would steal extra food. He’d split it with Dirk. They'd joke and laugh about the dumbest things, staying awake until their father, drunk from his morning beer, dragged them back inside. They'd watch as the sunlight filtered through smog-streaked clouds, appearing bright and burning red over the horizon, like blood.

There's a dull rattling noise. Dave dumps some pills into his hand and chews them. The sound is similar to that of splintering, cracking drywall. Solid, quiet, but percussionary. Like...

In the distance, there's a loud but deep bang. Smoke rises. Somewhere, far away, sirens start to sound.

“‘Eard from Rose tha’ there's a lot of talk ‘bout killin’off th’rest of us.” Dave rolls his shoulders. He opens a carton of cigarettes and sticks on in his mouth, lighting the end with a discarded match, which he carelessly scrapes against the rough concrete. “They're sendin’ ou’units now. See?” He points to a helicopter. The glint of the early morning sun bounces off of a sniper rifle's sights.

“And you’re telling me this because?” Dirk’s brows furrow. The ringing of distant gunshots pierces the air.

“Hmm...” Dave rubs at his chin. Stubble is visible on it. After a few moments, he shrugs. [I actually don't know why I mentioned it. Forget I said anything about it.] He reaches into his pocket and takes out a granola bar. After splitting it in half, handing one part to Dirk, he changes the topic. [What do you think about Karkat?]

Dirk shrugs. “I guess I don't have an opinion. Why?”

[He seems like a nice enough guy. And, honestly, he's kind of cute...]

“I wouldn't get too attached to him. Once he realizes how shitty life outside of the estates of Skaia is, he'll be fleeing faster than Napoleon as he bumbled his way out of Russia.” Dirk bites into the granola bar. He refrains from pointing out that it is very, _very_ stale. Instead, he quietly crumbles the lower portion in his hand, letting pieces fall when his brother isn't watching. “He’s being nice to you, right?”

[I'm the older one, dude.] Dave laughs. The sound carries on the wind, and is lost as it spreads over the slums of Skaia. [I can take care of myself. But, if it makes you feel better, he's pretty nice. He's nicer than most of our hostages.]

“Assets,” Dirk wags his finger. “It's more appropriate to call them assets. We treat them better than a hostage.”

“Not really too int’rested in y’seman’ics,” Dave says, through a mouthful of stale granola. He polishes off his serving. [I feel like we've forgotten something this morning.]

Dirk freezes. Now that Dave's mentioned it...

**Login:** KVantas

Two women stand in the doorway. One is shorter than the other. He skin is tan, and her figure a bit round. The other is tall, slender, and has skin that wouldn't be out of place against the clearest of nighttime skies. Of these two, the first to speak is the taller woman.

“Ah. You must be the new employee here. Dirk and Dave have spoken of you. I am Kanaya. This is my girlfriend, Rose, also Dave's distant cousin.”

Karkat nods. It's a slow, hesitant motion. He's unsure of what, exactly, he's so flustered about. Is it the fact that these women seem to radiate pure beauty? Is it the fact that he's literally just woken up, and is now opening the door in nothing more than his boxers and one of Dave's shirts (ripped, sweat-stained, and umpteen sizes too big). Whatever the reason may be, his mouth is dry. He can't even manage to stammer a retort.

“Let me guess,” Rose begins, smirking, “Neither of the idiots in question are actually here right now. Should that be the case, let me reassure you that I know exactly where to find them. Look on the roof.” With this, Rose reaches into her pocket. She hands over a key. “This is a copy of the requisite tool to open the off-limits area. And thank you in advance.”

Karkat doesn't bother asking how the woman has obtained a copy of a key for an off-limits area. He's already been the fool in plenty of situations revolving around daily life outside of his estate. Instead, he obediently scurries off, fetching the people the women were supposed to meet for breakfast.

* * *

**9 June 2033**  
**Weather:** Rainy, Humid, Warm  
**Login:** DStrider

Unable to sleep again, Dave has carefully crept out of the bedroom, which he shares with Dirk. He lays on the sofa, watching as a stream of ants march across the exposed wood of the ceiling. The stream in from a hole no larger than the end of a toothpick. From earlier examination, he pinned down their target as a loaf of bread. The portions they were swarming have already been discarded, and the rest has been placed in a tightly sealed glass jar.

Right now, however, the ants aren't what he's thinking of. Instead, his mind is wandering through various pastures. He thinks of how well this morning's breakfast went. (After, of course, Karkat kindly reminded them that they'd scheduled the event in the first place.) Karkat had gotten along with Rose and Kanaya splendidly. Really, once the hurdles of a foul mouth and a temper that's more bark than bite, he seems like a decent guy. It makes Dave wonder why the man ever wanted to leave the comforts of a pre-determined life.

From what he understands, the life of the head of any of the four major crime families of the city is fairly easy. Planning is mostly delegated to those beneath them. All the head of the family needs to do is collect the heaps of money that pour in day after day.

A sigh.

Dave rolls over, onto his side, and rests his forehead against the cushions of the backrest. His thoughts once again wander, settling on the day he'd met Dirk.

His younger brother had been “adopted”—with “abducted” being a more apt descriptor—at the age of four. At that time, Dave was ten. For the past five years, he knew nothing of childhood. He spent his time on the front lines of a dying war. His size and status as a child allowed him to easily worm through enemy lines, and his strength enabled him to quickly wipe out scores of hapless infantry. In hindsight, the end of the war was a scant few months away, but his father still brought Dirk back.

Miserable. It perfectly described how Dirk looked, how he held himself, with his shoulders hunched and his head down. He was timid, uncertain, and scared. All of these qualities drove Dave to put himself between his father and his newfound younger brother. And he did this for years, up until his father died. (By the time of his father's death, he was seventeen, and Dirk was eleven.)

Another shift of attention.

Dave has only told Dirk one lie. A single lie. He was born with hearing. Granted, it was fairly useless, but he was able to pick up on loud noises. It helped him during the war, allowing him to pinpoint where bombs were being dropped. He lost his hearing entirely when he was thirteen. His father, in the throes of he usual drunken tirades, had attempted to take his anger out on Dirk. Dave had intervened. He can still remember the last sound he heard—a sickening crunch.

Another jump.

It's now three thirty-something.

He sits up and looks out the window. In the distance, he sees the tiny flashing lights of an airplane. He wonders what it's like. He's seen photos of life outside of the walls of Skaia. Cities bustle with life, and people don't care if someone is a Bloodseeker. Granted, the only place on the planet where Bloodseekers are supposed to live is Skaia...

A yawn.

Dave flops onto his back and covers his face with his arm. He runs his other hand over the exposed skin of his chest, counting the jagged scars which cover it. _One... Two..._

Time passes. His eyelids grow heavier. Without really thinking about it, he slides off of the sofa. He adopts a sitting position, with his knees drawn to his chest, and he begins counting, now, the scars on his arms.

_Thirty-one... Thirty-two..._

He falls asleep.


	9. Autumn Ivy (Ogata Kenzan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, the only spoils of war are the powers that go to the victors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [painting link](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ogata_Kenzan#/media/File:%E8%94%A6%E7%B4%85%E8%91%89%E5%9B%B3-Autumn_Ivy_MET_DP251150.jpg)

**15 June 2033**

**Weather:** Cloudy, Hot, Humid, Smoggy

**Login:** KVantas

“There's another turf war going on a few blocks away.” Dirk enters the apartment, his formerly light brown jacket now stained with splotches of grey, remnants of the polluted rain. “We sort of need to finally get off of our own sorry asses and get some shit to eat, but I'd rather not die in the process. Grocery shopping has thus been postponed until tomorrow.”

Spread out on the sofa, Dave looks up. His brows furrow, and he signs a reply.

“Vantas versus Medici. Sorry, Karkat, but the fools your family sent are having a verified Karansebes of their own. A cow would have a better chance excreting straight beer from its tits before the Vantas family will gain any sort of reasonable ground in that fight.” Having hung his jacket on the hook by the door, Dirk now rubs the sleeves, seemingly trying to get some of the stains out before they set. “Now, don't take that as me saying that there's anything that might even resemble strategy in these turf wars. It's all a load of fucking farcical bullshit. They're about as organized as a swarm of brain-dead mosquitoes.”

Karkat shrugs. “Sounds about right. My deadbeat father never bothered actually promoting the decent people in his ranks. If you got bumped up, it was because he liked you. I'm sure the dumb, sorry fuck in charge of this battle is just a hapless, spoiled mafia brat. They all have a fucking type. Insufferable, know-it-all bastards, who swagger around like strutting cluck-beasts, waving their woefully inadequate plumage in the face of a female far too qualified for their bullshit.”

[Yes. I know them.] Dave signs slowly, so that Karkat can more easily understand him. He smirks. “Plenty o’them ‘round here.”

“This sector of Skaia has been under alternating control of the Vantas and Medici families for the past few decades. Who wins doesn't really matter, it's just some formality that's miles above the understanding or care of everyday people. The only things that change are the stupid crackpots who come sauntering in here, like bastardized Don Juans.” Dirk removes his shades and sets them on the table by the door.

As silence falls back upon the room, Karkat can't help but listen to the nearby gunshots. In all honesty, he's never been this close to violence. He's always been aware of it, known that it's happening, but it was always two or three steps removed from him. The impenetrable outer walls of the estate made it an isolated fortress. Thirty acres of manicured grounds, never sullied by the scourges of war or famine, and always meticulously groomed and watered, divided Karkat from reality. As a child, he was filled with stories of the glory of battle, and told that it presented chances to rise to one's true potential. To fight was to establish dominance and control and, in doing so, assert oneself in ways simple civilian life would never allow. Now, though, with the gunshots and shouts so near, he realizes how wrong all of it was.

A dull flash, about three blocks over, shines through the window. Then, there's a bang. The building shakes, and the windows shatter. A speaker in the stairwell, slightly muffled by the door, crackles to life. “Due to escalating tensions in the area, all residents are advised to evacuate to their assigned safety bunkers. Please reference your rental agreements for more information. This message will now repeat. Due to escalating tensions in the area—”

Dave grabs something Karkat assumes has always been in place, though he's never paid much attention to it: a plain, battered leather suitcase, strapped shut with red elastic bands. As another dull bang shakes the structure, he takes hold of Karkat's wrist and drags him towards the door.

Dirk, meanwhile, explains the situation. “The evacuation shelters are in the basement. Everyone gets one. They're pretty fucking small, barely worthy of being called shelters, but we're lucky that we even have them. Ours is cell twenty-two.” By the time he's done, the group has already stumbled to the appropriate place. After opening a sturdy, solid metal door, Dirk pushes the other two occupants of the apartment into the cramped eight-by-eight space. After stepping in, himself, he closes and locks it.

There's a soft click, followed by a low, incessant buzzing. The overhead bulb flickers to life. Seconds later, it goes out.

A deafening bang accompanies dust flaking from the hastily plastered ceiling. Karkat blinks. He sways on his feet, and...

“Yeah. So, hey, English, I know your career is just getting started, and that involving yourself with us will just make things a real nightmare, but we’re in more than a little bit of a fucking pickle. Yeah. Our apartment got shelled. Dave’s checking the damage now. And... oh? Huh? Yeah. I can wait.” Dirk’s voice is the first thing Karkat hears when he wakes. Dirk’s face, complete with his stupid, pointy shades, is the first thing he sees. “Oh. You’re awake. You fainted. I don’t blame you. It got pretty hot in here. And I’m strictly talking temperature wise, there was nothing erotic about the possibility of being toasted like a Pop-Tart in a barely-to-code bomb shelter.”

Karkat groans. He rubs the back of his head, where he feels a bit of pain, and pulls himself to the nearest wall. He leans his back against it, and settles upon staring at the door.  _ Is this what my family does for a living? _ he asks himself.

“Yeah. Uh. Shit, man, it’s probably completely and totally gone. It’s Armageddon out there. I know it’s about as ideal as choosing between starving or trying to snatch a plump, juicy rotisserie chicken out of the mouth of an alligator, but I can’t think of anywhere else we could stay.” Dirk puts his free hand in his pocket. He sighs. When he cards his fingers through his hair, plaster dust flies into the air. He sneezes.

At about the same time, the door opens. Dave stands, arms crossed, before the threshold, which now looks upon a scene of total destruction. Chunks of concrete dangle precariously, and water from a visibly broken pipe begins to deep into the space. “Mmm. Guess who’s homeless.” He says this without any trace of sorrow or anger. Instead, he seems almost bemused. “Whole ‘partment’s gone. Bang! Shit’s outta’ere. If English can’take us, I’ll call up Rose.”

Dirk is quick to relay the message. “Apartment is gone. Oh. We can? That’s a load off my man tits. Thanks. We’ll try and find you something nice to pay you back for everything.” There’s a brief pause, followed by a strangely soft smile. “Yeah, I love you, too. Sure. We can talk about that shit later. I’ve got to help Dave figure out if anything survived.”

**Login:** DirkS

Where the apartment once stood is now little more than a crumbling concrete shell. Embers, thrown up by sporadic fires throughout the wreckage, fly into the sky, like fireflies. None of this seems to deter Dave, who is insistently clambering up the collapsing debris. Dirk, of course, is following close behind. Exposed beams, super-heated by the flickering flames, burn his hands. In all likelihood, they burn Dave's, too, but neither man acknowledges this.

As Dave pulls Dirk up, onto the floor where their apartment once stood, the ground beneath his feet slips. He yelps, instinctively clinging to his brother's arm.

Dave laughs. He hauls his younger brother onto solid ground, then turns to the task at hand. He kneels before their desk, somehow still intact, albeit covered in concrete dust and ash, and opens the drawers. He collects what he can—important documents, loose cash, and old photos. “Oh, man, this place’s absolutely roasted,” he mutters. At the same time, a small smile creeps across his face. “Oh. Found this.” He picks up a frame, the glass shattered and the photo a bit singed, but nonetheless intact.

Dirk rushes over and snatches it up, eager to retain at least one thing from his past. And, at the exact moment he does, he remembers. “Fuck. The money.”

“What?” Dave turns.

Dirk doesn't answer. In his head, he can only see the image.

_ “The money. I'm such a fucking idiot. Is this my Aesop moment? Is this how fate punishes me?”  _ The thought pulses through his brain, like a migraine. It's a pressure against his temples, which grows with every heartbeat. One hundred million. A check, for one hundred million dollars, just sitting, hidden, in a crappy cardboard box under the bed. Sure, he had a bank account. The rest of his funds were in the bank, but he kept that to himself. After all, if they were ever convicted of a crime, he would happily throw himself on the stake for his brother, meaning any funds in his account would be immediately released to the government. So...

He slams against the door to the room he shares with Dave. The frame has buckled, and he doesn't know what he'll find on the other side. (Had he bothered to look through the gaping hole in the nearby wall, he'd have known. He wouldn't have gotten his hopes up, because on the other side of that door...) “Dammit. Can't even do this right. Dave!”

The elder of the two Striders approaches. [What? You shit yourself in the chaos? Need some new underwear?] Dave gently brushes his brother aside. He picks up a heavy wooden beam, aims, and swings.

The door splinters, sounding not dissimilar to the crunch of bone. “Job's done.” He drops the beam and grins, though that expression quickly fades. “Dirk? You okay?”

The words don't reach Dirk's ears. He's already slumped to the ground, hands on his knees, his nails digging into the ashen fabric of his pants. “It's gone. It's all fucking gone. I have to be the world's biggest, incurable idiot.”

“Huh?” Dave's brows furrow.

Dirk, after burying his face in his hands for a few seconds, shakes his head. He stands, faces his brother, and responds with a blatant lie. [Nothing. It's nothing. Jake is out of town right now. He won't be home for a few days, but he told me where to find the spare key. You know I can't drive, so I'll just direct you.]

For as good of a brother as he is, Dave is as clueless as ever. He grins. [Sure. Let's go.]

**Login:** KVantas

Jake English must have made some hell of a name for himself.

This is the first thing that goes through Karkat’s head as he approaches the home. It’s nothing compared to his home. It’s no sprawling estate, but it appears that this Jake English—whoever he may be—is well off. It’s a comfortably sized two-story building, complete with its own detached garage. Jake presumably left the lights on in this garage, as he can see hunting trophies hanging on the walls.

“So… Who, exactly, is Jake?” inquires Karkat.

Both Dave and Dirk offer nervous laughs.

“Uh… Have you ever heard of the English Agency?” Dirk mumbles.

“As in… The… The fucking detective agency?”

Both men nod.

Karkat, meanwhile, is left mentally reeling. He feels as if his brain has been run over by a truck. How has he ended up like this? In between two bumbling contract killers, one of whom has been quite obviously ogling at him since he arrived, and another who is apparently having an undercover affair with a detective.

What else could possibly go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anyone is wondering, the chapter titles are me dunking on victor hugo for his dumbass chapter naming conventions i'm ripping hard on that bastard because fuck why not


	10. The Order of Release (John Milais)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, in which a larger conflict arises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [link to the painting](https://artsandculture.google.com/asset/the-order-of-release-1746/cQEhuAQIHc3vIg?hl=en&avm=2)

**16 June 2033**  
**Weather:** Warm, Cloudy  
**Login:** KVantas

His new room is spacious and luxurious. The bed is made of the finest synthetics, and the curtains are embellished with strands of silver. The furniture is refined, likely handmade. There sa fireplace near the bed, and a fair-sized wardrobe in the corner by the window. A polished mahogany door leads to Dave’s room, and, for no real reason, Karkat has left the latch undone.

Outside, against a backdrop of overburdened, dark grey clouds, a haze of silver smog rolls across the alleyways. Below, speaking casually with the mailman, is Dirk.

They’re all such little details, inconsequential things, but they work together to put Karkat at ease.

“Hey.” There’s a knock, following by the door slowly opening. Dave steps in, cradling a paper bag like a baby. “Got us some donuts,” he announces, his voice a bit too loud for the room he’s in. He sets the bag down, then takes out a variety of confections. From appearance alone, it appears to be a mixed batch, containing half a dozen. Two are plain, one is strawberry, one is chocolate, one is jelly-filled, and the last appears to be chocolate and caramel. From his pocket, Dave takes a notebook. {Dirk withdrew some money from the bank. Fuck if I know where he got it, but it was enough to get a little treat.} After this, he scribbles a little winking face.

Karkat can’t help but snicker. He rolls his eyes. He begins with a simple sign, [Thank you], then progresses to writing. His skills are growing, and, somehow, the sign language book survived the bomb, but he isn’t confident enough to hold a discussion. Not yet. {Donuts are a luxury?} He’s aware how aloof he must sound.

Fortunately, Dave simply shrugs. “This box? Maybe... uh? Thirty?” He takes his gun from its usual place, wedged between the waistband of his pants and his belt, and unloads it. Then, tossing it aside, he snatches up the caramel-zig-zagged donut for himself. He says more, but, between his usual speech patterns and a full mouth, Karkat doesn’t understand him.

“It’s thirty fucking dollars, and you’re still willing to share it with me? Huh. You’re a much kinder fucking twit than I could ever dream of being in this blighted lifetime,” Karkat smirks. For himself, he takes a plain donut.

In all honesty, he _is_ impressed by Dave’s generosity. In his life, he’s never faced food shortage. He’s never starved, nor has he suffered anything more painful than the mild inconvenience of a tutor running a bit late to a lesson. In every respect, he’s lived a life of luxury, especially in comparison to Dave. And, yet, the man with nothing is more than happy to share with the former recipient of a world where he had everything. It’s striking. It’s humbling. It’s a gesture so warm and inviting that he can’t help but smile.

The first bite of the donut is fair enough. Admittedly, it’s sub-par. Compared to some of the things he’s eaten, it’s a pale imitation. But, thinking back to the things he’s eaten since escaping from the estate, it’s on the luxurious side. Its preparation is beyond professional. The texture is soft, yet doughy, and the flavor is sweet enough to satisfy that sugar-induced itch, but starchy enough to avoid being tooth-rotting.

“Y’not respondin’, so I’m assumin’ you like it?” A small, lopsided smile crosses Dave’s face.

Karkat rolls his eyes. He punches Dave on the shoulder. “Thanks, I guess. This is a pretty decent thing for you to do.”

{Dirk bought them. I just toodled on along and decided to share ‘em.}

**Login:** DirkS

“Record numbers of anti-Bloodseeker protestors have been spotted at the Skaia Capital Building today. Initially peaceful, these demonstrators arrived to speak out against what they referred to as, quote, ‘a ruling that puts the welfare of those without proper citizenship before those to whom this city belongs’, end quote. We interviewed many people today, many of whom were removed after protestors began attacking the small gathered numbers of pro-Bloodseeker demonstrators.” The television drones on, the lines of text flickering across the bottom. Images of buildings on fire, surrounded by throngs Of enraged legal citizens, illuminate the dimly lit room.

“So, Dave?” Dirk calls.

From behind the counter, with a bottle of beer in his hand, Dave looks up. “Hm?”

Dirk stands. He wanders to the controls for the lights and turns them up, so that the room is more brightly lit. Then, facing his brother, he responds, [Youre watching the news, too, right,]

Dave shrugs. He sets the bottle down, so that his hands are free, before he responds. [Of course. I’d have to shove my head straight into my own stomach to ignore it. That’s how far up my fucking ass I’d be. What of it? We all knew it would happen.]

[Well, yeah. This was just an oncoming train, flying off the established and outdated rails. But that doesn’t make it any less shitty. The world’s collapsing, bro. And we’re going to be at the bottom.] Dirk sighs. He runs his fingers through his hair. Since Jake isn’t home, he’s kept the thermostat set high; his hair is just slightly damp from sweat. [Aren’t you afraid?]

There’s a moment’s pause. Soft thuds sound as Dave taps his fingers against the granite countertop. Then, quite suddenly, his hands move. [Honestly? Yeah. But we can’t do anything about it. I mean, what are we going to do? Take down the whole city’s crime monopolies?]

Part of Dirk recognizes that his brother is being facetious, but part of him also longs to be part of something bigger. If he was—if he can just carve out some sort of decent legacy—maybe he could feel just a little better about himself. Maybe...

“Hey!” Dave snaps his fingers. [You can’t actually be dancing around the cuckoo ballroom with that idea, can you? I didn’t save your ass over and over again for you to throw it at some pipe dream, Dirk.] Dave has used his name sign, the basic equivalent of being called by his first and last name. This is serious.

But, now that he’s got it in his head, Dirk can’t just let the idea go. [We have an insider. I mean, what’s better than the son of the head of one of the crime families?]

[Leave Karkat out of this. You said it yourself. He’s just here until his bounty is ripe.] The statement drips from Dave’s fingertips with an odd amount of venom. His movements are sharp and calculated. Each shape is clearly and purposefully emphasized. [Dirk, I swear to fucking God, you’d better not run off and do something stupid.]

“Oh? What? You’re in love with him or something? Is this some sort of inverse Stockholm syndrome? You—?” Dirk freezes when he sees the look on Dave’s face. He’s gone too far. It’s just like always. No matter what he does, no matter his intentions, everything he touches just withers and dies.

Dave’s eyes are locked on the floor. His hands are in his pockets. “I... uh... Fuck. Le’s just end this discussion, ‘kay?” He turns, his shoulders slumped, and wanders towards the staircase. “G’nigh’, Dirk.”

Alone, in the middle of the living room, Dirk curses under his breath. He slams his fist against the table, inadvertently hitting the remote.

The television buzzes back to life. “The government has begun to recall the most violent Bloodseekers for termination of their contracts. Anyone with information on these dangerous individuals should report to their local Department for Bloodletter Enforcement and Monitoring. You can find the full list of wanted merecenary workers on our website.”

_That’s enough._

Dirk collapses onto the sofa, turns off the television, and covers his face with his arm. He breathes out. It’s a long, shaking breath, tainted by years of failures and regrets.

* * *

**20 June 2033**  
**Weather:** Hot, Humid, Stormy  
**Login:** KVantas

Jake English is a tall man with lightly tanned skin and almond-shaped green eyes. He has a slightly buck-toothed smile and an accent that Karkat can’t really place beyond it being an imitation of a Cockney accent, but not exactly a good one. Nonetheless, he greets the new face with enthusiasm. “A chap of Dirk’s is a pal of mine,” he reassures, his handshake firm and eager. “Detective Jake English. Skaia City’s fastest growing private investigator.”

From what he can gather, Jake is a fairly cheerful and welcoming man. Despite a voice that carries easily, he seems like a soft-spoken and timid individual. He’s a people-pleaser.

“Of course, you can’t go around blabbing that I’m letting you stay at my place. That would just be a huge downer for my business,” he cautions, amidst his introductory speech. “However, should you need anything, simply ask.”

**Login:** DirkS

Rain has washed the blood from his skin, but not from his clothing. Bits of brain matter still cling to his raincoat, the sleeves of which are rolled up. Just yards away, the target lies, dead, her head split open on the pavement.

A petty thief. That’s all she was. She was doing the same thing as him. Trying to keep her family alive, and he killed her for it. But he doesn’t have time to think about it. He doesn’t have time to think about much of anything but the funds he’ll be receiving.

“A bit slow for my liking,” croons a gangly old woman. She tuts and, when she shakes her head, her grey curls bounce. She takes a wad of cash from her purse and hands it over, commenting, “I appreciate your service, but I simply cannot pay full price. Here is your pay.”

Dirk counts. He was promised a thousand; in his hands, he holds six hundred.

It’s the clock against his reputation, and he can’t afford to waste either of these two assets. So, biting his tongue until he tastes blood, he nods. He bows. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Of course.” The woman spins her umbrella, soaking Dirk’s clothing even further. Then, without another word, she departs.

Dirk yawns. He checks his watch. It’s almost midnight, but he doesn’t want to think about that. Instead, after rinsing his clothes off in a nearby pool of rainwater, (formed by a particularly large pothole) he hails a cab. He directs it to his next job, using the short twenty minute drive to catch some semblance of sleep.

He’ll earn it back somehow. All one hundred million. Somehow, he’ll make all of the money back. How, exactly, is still a point of contention.

The taxi driver sings along with the radio, his warbling, mid-pitched voice going with a melancholy tune. The wipers beat on time, and the pelting percussion of the rain lulls the tired mercenary into a short, shallow slumber,


	11. The Music Lesson (Johannes Vermeer)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which moments of bliss give way to stark realization, though perception can be clouded by personal bias.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHO'S BAAAACK. [here's the painting](http://www.essentialvermeer.com/catalogue/music_lesson.html). this chapter wasn't beta read at all because i'm a fucking IDIOOOOOT.

**23 June 2033** **  
** **Weather:** Humid, Stormy   
**Login:** DStrider

The rain beats against the windows like stones, and the strong winds are powerful enough to elicit from the luxurious home a barrage of moans and creaks. Lighting streaks across the sky, and the thunder seems to shake the earth, itself.

[We’ll have to hand him back over eventually,] Dirk signs, his stance rigid. [His bounty is going up, but it’ll reach a limit. They’ll pull back on it, and we’ll be right back where we started.]

Dave shrugs. He ignores the dull pain in his chest, which rises with each breath. [What if he doesn’t want to go back?] he argues.

[And when has that ever stopped us? We’ve handed people over knowing full well they’re getting their heads lopped off the minute we do.] Dirk’s eyes narrow. His brows furrow. [Why do you care so much about this one?]

[Karkat?] Even now, simply doing his name sign, Dave feels heat rising to his cheeks. [Who cares why? He’s not exactly a murderer, and he’s already shown that he doesn’t exactly want to go back.]

[Why do you care?] Dirk repeats, pressing the issue.

[It doesn’t fucking matter.] Dave groans. A wave of pain washes over him, and he stumbles. He catches himself on a nearby armchair and coughs. [Why do  _ you  _ care so much?] He emphasizes his point by jabbing a finger at Dirk and allowing it to linger for a bit longer than is really necessary.

Dirk bristles at the comment. [Because I care about you, dumbass. You do remember that the reason we grabbed Karkat in the first place was to cash in on the bounty, right?]

[I do, but—]

[The bounty is at one hundred million. That’s all we need for now. I’ll give him two weeks, then we’ll send him back.]

Knowing that he can’t persuade his brother, Dave nods. He buries his hands in his pockets, the equivalent of biting his tongue, and turns around, prepared to return to Karkat’s room. As he does this, however, Dirk adds on one more comment.

“The social event is coming up soon. The theme is a masquerade, because of fucking course it is. Every goddamned socialite loves to rub it off to some archaic bullshit, right? We can take Karkat, if you want. I’ve already gotten Jake to smuggle us three tickets. It’s in two days.”

“Mm-hm.” Dave nods.

* * *

**25 June 2033** **  
** **Weather:** Warm, Humid, Clear   
**Login:** KVantas

In every possible regard, Karkat isn’t exactly sure  _ why  _ he agreed to attend the event. He has no real need to mingle with the very upperclassmen he’d abandoned, nor does he want to return to a lifestyle that he never particularly enjoyed. Parties were never his thing, and they still aren’t. Thinking back, however, he considers the possibilities. The social is something different, to begin with; it’s a break in his everyday life as a captive individual. (Albeit a captive with a surprising amount of rights and freedoms.)

Then, there’s the human aspect: Dave. Maybe it was how he’d asked—his stance reserved, with his hands wringing together behind his back. There had been an unequivocal, unintentional anxiety about him, which had struck a chord with Karkat. And, after brief deliberation, there was obvious relief.

Now, as the sun begins to set behind a deep red, smog-streaked skyline, the trio stands in line to enter. All three bear tickets. While both of the Strider brothers have their true identities on their entry passes, Karkat does not; instead, he’s been given the alias of Vermeer, a temporary secretary for the pair. As they pass the bouncer, they’re waved in without question.

The party, itself, is held in the same opulence that Karkat has come to expect of the upper class of Skaia. The manicured grounds are replete with meticulously trimmed hedges and grass as green and shining as emeralds. Dusted with water, to emulate the morning dew, the blades reflect the dancing lights of the overhead hanging lanterns. (And, of course, this laborious task was performed by another underpaid member of the groundskeeping staff.) White-clad tables, their coverings embroidered with threads of fine gold, are stocked with constantly replenished  _ hors d'oeuvres _ . The live music is amplified and streamed from speakers hidden in plants and disguised as stones.

“Stay close to Dave,” Dirk instructs. His mask is crafted in the image of a wolf. Dark lenses are set in the eyepieces, and deep red edge work offsets the silver body of the mask. “I’m going to mingle and snag a few contracts for us.” After he finishes speaking, he signs the statement. He ends by flashing a thumbs up.

Dave responds similarly. A smirk is visible below the beak of his solid black crow mask,and he watches his brother’s back until it disappears into the meandering mass of the crowd. Having declined the addition of lenses on his mask, he takes his phone from his pocket and sends a text to Karkat. {You heard him. You’re stuck with me.}

Karkat sighs. “That’s not exactly the worst fate I could have at this point,” he mumbles.

Dave frowns. He shakes his head and taps the index finger of his right hand to the corresponding ear. [I can’t hear you.]

Karkat, after a bit of thought, offers his own signed response. He holds his right hand up, forming an ‘O’ shape, then throws it forward. As the motion occurs, he loosens his hand, so that the fingers are spread and flat. [Nothing.]

Accepting this answer, Dave shrugs. He leads Karkat through a constantly moving throng of people, sometimes offering elbow bumps and courteous smiles to strangers. It’s a side of Dave that Karkat hasn’t had a chance to see, and it’s fascinating. It’s an obvious sign of Dave’s social connections; he knows people, and that familiarity goes beyond superficial formalities.

In the back of his head, Karkat can’t even scrounge up enough people that he might know that well to count on one hand. He can’t even really say if he knows his parents well enough to consider them in this category; he’s been raised by hired help, and the employees never stayed longer than a few months. Everything he’s known, at least until now, has been a rotating door of empty faces and tissue-thin bonds. He’s always prided himself in being a relatively personable individual, but, now, seeing Dave so seamlessly mesh with people without saying so much as a word, he finds himself reconsidering.

“Hungry?” Dave speaks. It’s meant as a question, but stated as a fact. And, when there’s no immediate reaction, he repeats himself. “You hungry?”

Up to this point, Karkat hadn’t really thought about eating. Now that he has, however, he finds his stomach growling. He nods.

Dave offers a double thumbs up. Perhaps without really thinking about it, he reaches out and grabs Karkat’s hand. It’s a gentle touch, and the grip is such that Karkat could easily pull himself free if he wanted to, but he doesn’t. He savors the contact, up until the moment that it’s broken.

Following Dave’s gesture, Karkat joins the man, in front of one of the serving tables. He watches, and he quickly figures out the method by which Dave has decided to communicate. When Dave’s hand hovers over a food item that Karkat is interested in, he nods; Dave scoops a serving onto the plate, and the process repeats. Within a minute or so, Karkat’s plate is ready; he stays until Dave’s is, too. Afterwards, with a strange, light feeling bubbling in his chest, he follows the man to one of the many available tables.

**Login:** DirkS

“They’ve really upped the bounty for Vantas, huh?” The man behind the wolf mask speaks quickly, never fully revealing his face to the tall, portly man with a full-face panther mask. He drums his fingers against the top of a nearby half wall, feeling the rough brick. “I can assure you that he’s as healthy as the most virulent ox, and that he’s been well fed and cared for. Would you be willing to wait a few more days for his delivery?”

“No.” The respondent’s voice is deep, gravelly, and firm. “I will take him now.”

“Pay me first, in cash, and you’ll have him by the end of the night.” Dirk holds out his hand.

The figure, hidden beneath a black fur cape, nods. He hands over a large box.

Turning his back to the crowd, Dirk opens the case. He quickly thumbs through the bills, and his heart races. It takes several deep breaths before he regains his composure enough to turn back around. “As we agreed?”

“Three hundred fifty million, yes,” the stranger nods.

“Thank you for the deal, then, Mr. Vantas.” A firm handshake seals the deal. Dirk quickly tucks the precious box under his arm and rushes for the nearby parking garage. The bouncers are fully aware of his business here; he is not disturbed during his return to the car. In fact, he receives a few appreciative nods from on site staff.

He stows the payment safely in the trunk of the vehicle. With a length of chain, which he brought from home, he wraps the package, then padlocks the additional protection in place. Then, locking the cash safely away, he returns to the party.

There’s a part of him that’s aware that he’s done something wrong; it screams at him, slamming against the walls of his chest like a caged animal. Yet, the sense of accomplishment—something he feels so fleetingly and with such irregularity—is overpowering. It thrums through him with every heartbeat, like adrenaline. By the end of the night, all he needs to do is give the signal—to press the wireless locator button in his pocket—and the affair is through.

**Login:** DStrider

The music has been slowly rising in volume over the past hour or so. Dave can feel its beat. In the distance, closer to the stage, he can see the colors changing on the array of lights. The crowd is moving in time, dancing and mingling as if nothing matters. Outside of the fortified triple-thick masonry barriers, people are murdering for profit. Here, however, everything is relaxed. The mood is high, and massive, strategically placed fans cool the wet, hot nighttime air.

There’s something magical about the night, and Dave can’t quite place it. Perhaps it’s the fireflies, which flutter into the air, glowing like stars. Or, perhaps, it’s simply the absurdity of it all, being a widely known lowlife carousing just under the noses of what might be every socialite in the city. Whatever the case is, he takes a chance. He nudges Karkat’s shoulder and signs, keeping to one word so that his message can be easily understood. He holds his left hand flat, and taps the tips of his outstretched index and middle fingers against the open palm. It’s a singular word, [Dance], but he means it more as a question. [Will you dance with me?]

Karkat, in return, smiles. it’s a soft, warm expression. Its image clings to Dave’s mind, settling easily amongst the archives of the few truly happy moments of his life. He reaches out a hand, and Dave takes it. Two skin tones clash—pale, near white and deep, medium brown. He says something, but the pheasant mask he wears, and the cloth which hangs beneath the beak, make it impossible for Dave to know what it is.

Two bodies, held close to one another, share warmth, but it’s surprisingly pleasant, even in the muggy air of the evening. Going by the thumping beat in his bones, Dave leads the charge. He’s never been one for dancing; it wasn’t exactly something he was taught to do, nor did he ever have time to take up the hobby. He’s always admired dancers, but he knows he isn’t one. So, he sticks to simple movements.

One. Two. Three. Two. Two. Three.

In his mind, Dave clings to this moment. He knows that he needs to. Things have been going too well; his life has never gone this smoothly. He seals the moment in his mind, etching it into his heart. He takes in every detail—how the wind combs through the willow leaves, the way the fabric of his suit rests on his skin, and how a smile is visible through the veil in front of Karkat’s mouth.

There’s a lull in the beat, and Dave knows the song is over. He releases Karkat’s hand, and everything seems to proceed in slow motion.

People begin running, their masks falling to the ground. They scatter, rapidly moving away from where Dave stands, and it takes him a moment to realize why. Shock lasts only so long, though, and he soon feels a familiar, warm wetness pooling against his chest. A quick touch, and his fingers draw back, now covered in red. He stumbles forward, watching as Karkat’s eyes widen in fear. As much as he wants to, he can’t play the injury off. The deep, stabbing pain flares up with each breath, and it radiates through his upper body.

“Dave?” Karkat has pulled off his mask, now; the movement of his lips is visible, and Dave can extrapolate a few words from the situation and these motions. “Dave!?” Panic. This is full blown panic.

Dirk rushes forward, coming from behind. He blows past Dave, and tackles a nearby security guard. Only now does Dave realize that this man is holding a gun, one that had formerly been pointed squarely at his chest. With his target pinned down, Dirk retaliates, showing no mercy or restraint.

Another member of the security staff, clad in a pure black suit, steps forward. They grab hold of Karkat. The man’s struggle is nothing; he’s easily dragged off, pulled in the direction of the main house.

Dave, meanwhile, figures that it isn’t worth a fight. If this is how it ends, he’ll take it. If he’s about to die, he’ll die with a fleeting moment of pure bliss still on his mind, and as much of a smile as he can muster. He lets his knees buckle, and the darkness, which swims at the edges of his vision, grows ever larger.

He doesn’t remember hitting the ground.

* * *

**26 June 2033** ****  
**Weather:** Rainy, Breezy, Mild   
**Login:** DirkS

Standing across from Rose, with the required funds already counted out, Dirk can’t help but smile. It took only a few minutes to stabilize Dave, and, now, with the money he’s earned from the early turn-in, he’s set to pay off the surgery.

“This certainly  _ appears  _ to be the prerequisite amount,” admits Rose. She, too, is smiling. “I shall count this, affirm that the money is legal tender, and drop it off at Jade’s. I’ve already arranged for Dave to be transported to Jade’s office, and she and I will begin work. I don’t know how you did this, but I’m impressed. Karkat should be happy to learn of this development.”

“Karkat’s been turned back over,” Dirk admits. “How else do you think that I got all of this dough?”

Rose’s smile falters. “Well,” she says, her mood suddenly dark, “I hope you’re prepared for the consequences when Dave wakes. That is, of course, assuming that he  _ will _ .”

“He will,” Dirk says, confident.

In the moment, riding the high of his own success, he can’t even begin to process Rose’s warning. Why should he? He’s won. He’s beaten a system that’s been built against him for years, and what could possibly counteract that?


	12. Liberty Leading the People (Eugène Delacroix)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which distance brings motivation, and motivation may lead to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [link to the painting](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Liberty_Leading_the_People).

**27 June 2033** **  
** **Weather:** Seasonable  
**Login:** DStrider

When Dave opens his eyes, he’s greeted to the sight of Rose Lalonde. Her arms are folded expectantly across her chest, and, upon seeing movement, she offers him a wide smile. [You’re awake!] Normally, her signing is more reserved. Right now, she’s positively giddy. Her movements are large and fast. [Welcome back! We fixed up your collapsed lung, cobbled back together a few ribs, and made sure that you’re good to go with you’re new heart.]

[New heart?] Dave moves to respond, only to feel a rush of pain. He groans and forgoes any sort of reply. Instead, he watches, patiently waiting out Rose’s explanation.

[Dirk is out on a contract right now. He’ll be pretty pissed that he missed you waking up, but he’ll be back. He paid for the surgery to hopefully reverse the effects of the mutation, and it seems it’s working. The heart we’ve put into you has an integrated module to analyze your blood. It releases timed bursts of grist, and will release extra should your body need it for healing. You’ll need to come back to get it refilled every so often, but it’s more potent than pills and seems to be holding up. How do you feel?]

“Like shit.”

[That’s to be expected.] Rose shrugs. [Now, there were a few complications. Your lungs have been damaged, so your oxygen capacity will be diminished for the foreseeable future. The excess amounts of grist in your system may cause various side effects until your body becomes accustomed to it, and you’ll likely experience sleeping difficulty for a while.] She seems ready to say more, but Dave doesn’t give her the chance.

“Where’s Karkat?”

[I didn’t get that. Can you repeat?]

“Karkat,” Dave grumbles, shoving himself into a sitting position. “Where’s Karkat?”

Rose bites her lip. She looks away, towards the floor. [You realize this wasn’t a cheap procedure, correct?]

Dave’s reality shatters. His eyes narrow, his brows furrow, and his stance goes rigid. [He sold him out.]

[Simply put, yes.]

[Bastard.] The beeping of the heart hastens.

**Login:** KVantas

Alone in the gardens, Karkat finds himself sprawled out in the grass. Before he, he would have worried about dirtying his fine silk jacket; now, he couldn’t care less. He feels defeated, and, above that, he feels betrayed.

Had he been ratted out? Was the entire dance—that moment of connection—a ruse? Had he built his love on a lie? The questions swirl in his head like a tornado, yet a singular speck of hope remains rooted at the center of the tumult. If it had all been a setup, how did it end with Dave shot—possibly dead—and Dirk beating the shit out of a security guard?

He meanders, scaling a faux trellis until he stands atop the concrete gazebo. From here, he can see just over the wall. He can see the midtown hospital, and he can see the filth and squalor of everyday life.

“Master Karkat,” inquires one of the butlers, standing just below the structure, “Your father has sent me to tell you to remove yourself from this spot at once.”

Karkat sighs. Disobedience is no longer an option. Autonomy outside of the norm is forbidden. He clambers down, offers the staff member a nod, and sits at the edge of the nearby fountain.

If nothing can ever change, why should he bother? He’ll just end up where he was meant to be, ruling a crime family that has always survived in the same wanton murder that he’s always so despised.

Then again, if things could change…

Could they?

Karkat reaches into the sheath at his side, where all members of the Vantas family carry a ceremonial silver dagger. He unsheathes it and spins it between his fingers, watching as the light dances across the blade. If he chose to resist now, it would mean bloodshed. If he chose to resist now, it would probably mean death.

Then again, when you’ve seen a life you’ve never lived but always wanted, only to be pulled away from it, is death really a punishment?

* * *

**28 June 2033** **  
** **Weather:** Stormy, Humid, Hot  
**Login:** DStrider

“You can’t possibly think that I did this just to piss you off,” Dirk counters, defensive and on edge. “Look at it from my perspective, Dave! I could either watch you die, or I could do something. Our solution was under our noses, and you’re telling me you’d take that classist bastard over your own life?”

[What life?] Dave snaps back. He stumbles forward, leaning against the wall rather than using a crutch. [I don’t want to go back to being a Bloodseeker. I never did. I did it because I needed to support you, but you’re a goddamned adult now, Dirk. I don’t need to have you babysitting me, and I shouldn’t be watching your ass, either.]

“What about ‘thank you’? I saved your fucking life, Dave!”

[Thank you. But I didn’t want it.] Dave groans. He clutches his ribs, wheezing out a few breaths before he continues, [People die eventually, Dirk. You have to face that. You wasted your money, and you’ve wasted your potential.]

“And you haven’t?” Dirk scoffs. “You’re the best Bloodseeker out there, and you just want to retire?”

[I don’t want to kill people for a living, no.] Dave sighs. He runs his fingers through his hair and stops, considering, for a moment, the facts before him.

Dirk is right in every sense. His life was at the mercy of money, and Karkat’s bounty was the last thing between him and death. That being said, his time with Karkat, though fleeting, had been the best time he can remember having in his life. He felt free to be himself, and to drop the usual guise of a mentor and protector. He had found a peer to share his life with, and, just before it was realized, he’d lost it.

“I’m sorry,” Dirk admits. “I tried to make them wait, but they insisted on the trade. We have enough to pay down a basic house, if that helps…”

[I think I’d like to be on my own for a while.] Even though it’s an honest answer, it still hurts to have to admit it. The last thing Dave has ever wanted to do is leave Dirk—someone he’s protected for years—to the whims of Skaia, but he also feels the need to step back. [If you need to talk, I’m always here. Text me.]

“And… and where the fuck will you live!?” Dirk sputters, obviously as torn as his brother. “You… I mean… fine. I’ll respect your wishes. Can I at least visit?”

[Give me a heads up before you do.] Dave tries to smile, but it comes across as more of a grimace. [I’m still your older brother, right?]

“Of course.” Dirk sighs. He turns to leave, only for Dave to catch his attention with a sharp whistle.

[Take this.] Dave removes his sword from his back. [Stay safe, okay?]

“I will.” Dirk sheathes the sword by hanging it from a loop of leather on his belt. “You, too.”

Dave nods.

* * *

**10 July 2033** **  
** **Weather:** Rainy, Stormy, Humid, Hot  
**Login:** DStrider

In the middle of a rainstorm, Dave Strider finds himself where he’s chosen to settle. He sits beneath a leaky overhang, made of wooden shingles nailed haphazardly to a rotting slab of plywood. His back leans against one of the walls that divides the Vantas estate from the rest of the city, and a lit cigarette dangles from his mouth. With his back to one of the supporting beams, he can feel the heavy pattering of raindrops.

Though the lenses have been broken at this point, he insists upon wearing the empty frames of his sunglasses. It’s a sentimental item, one of the few things he can truly claim as his own. He’s wrapped himself in a discarded, torn shirt, draping it over his shoulders to provide some sort of protection from the pelting rain.

From time to time, he stretches out his foot, nudging a mostly empty can towards passersby. Sometimes, they drop change for him; other times, they ignore him. Twice, he’s had his change can stolen.

Now, he finds himself at the mercy of a pair of Vantas family guards. They shout at him, spitting in his face as they drag him to his feet.

He doesn’t bother fighting back. At least, for the beginning of the encounter, he allows things to happen. He watches, mildly intrigued, as the two men appear to banter with one another. What they’re saying is unknown; their words are muddled by a thick accent. They laugh. Presumably, they’re insulting him. Having been on the receiving end of this for most of his life, Dave doesn’t particularly care.

When they start to get rougher, however, Dave grows wary.

It begins with a twist of the arm, a rough shove against the wall. The grip of the man restraining him grows tighter, and the laughter is more frequent. He bears the brunt of a few punches, knowing that they’ll leave little more than a bruise.

Then, without much warning, it escalates. A knife is drawn and, before Dave has time to react, it’s plunged into his knee. The pain doesn’t come for now; adrenaline takes care of that. He rides on a wave of instinct. He pulls the blade from his knee, turns it against the attackers, and swiftly plunges it into the neck of his restrainer. He frees the knife, ignoring the spurting of blood, and turns.

There’s a moment of hesitation. Slate grey eyes peer out from behind the open visor of the guard’s helmet, and Dave’s heart skips a beat.

It’s enough of a pause for him to be pinned to the ground, cuffed, and thrown into the back of a Vantas family vehicle (identifiable by the familial crest on its side). Inside, a length of cloth is tied over his eyes. He doesn’t bother to resist. He knows he’s been played. He fell into the trap—Bloodseekers cannot, for any reason, murder a person other than their assigned contract target. If such a deed is witnessed, it’s immediate imprisonment. Neither trial nor deliberation is required.

 _“Perhaps,”_ Dave finds himself thinking, _“This is punishment for all the bullshit I’ve done. Every sin has a cost, and I guess I’ve stumbled ass-first into mine.”_

**Login:** KVantas

“In other news, another Bloodseeker has been removed from our streets,” the news announcer drones. It’s a common headline, one that’s only increasing in frequency as time passes. The public opinion of Bloodseekers has been gradually turning against them, and it seems to be reaching its zenith. In fact, for a few moments, Karkat considers changing the channel. His finger hovers over the button, only for him to freeze.

Pictured on his screen is a familiar face. Pale skin is covered in deep, purple bruising around both eyes and his jaw. Dried blood is crusted below his nose; it’s clearly seeped from a gash across his forehead. Deep, rusty brown is scattered amidst almost white, silvery blond hairs. Broken, empty sunglasses rims rest, lopsided, on the bridge of his nose.

“Infamous serial murderer, Dave Strider, has been captured and jailed. The Council of Skaia has determined that his long list of crimes constitute enough to warrant two life terms. He will not be eligible for parole. Due to security concerns, the location of Mr. Strider’s imprisonment will not be revealed. His brother, Dirk Strider, is still at large. If anyone sees Dirk Strider, pictured here, please report it to the Skaia City security force.”

Now, Karkat shuts off the television. He hurls the remote across the room.

He knows why this has happened, and he knows it’s his fault. If he had avoided the Strider brothers altogether—if he’d managed to evade capture—both of them would be perfectly fine. He knows this is a ploy. If the Striders are imprisoned, then it ensures that he’ll be docile. He has no control over what happens in prison; he has no means to prevent anything truly bad from happening to Dave, other than to obey the commands and whims of his father.

If he’s learned anything from his time with Dave, though, it’s that defeat only lasts for as long as he lets his father think he’s won.

He knows the chain of command. If he can overthrow his father, he gains control of the entire operation. Then again, he’s also aware of the political situation; he can’t simply dissolve the entire Vantas crime syndicate. All that will accomplish is the intensifying of any territorial disputes.

No, what he needs is a unified force. He needs a majority—a neutral party—that’s willing to fight to reclaim a city that was never meant to be equally shared. He needs a revolution, and, considering the situation, he’s more than happy to incite it.

* * *

**13 July 2033** ****  
**Weather:** Hot, Dry  
**Login:** DirkS

When he opens the door, Dirk Strider is struck by two things. The first is a burst of overbearingly dry, oppressively hot air. It saps all moisture from him, simultaneously providing a pleasant cooling sensation and an uncomfortable sort of choking. He coughs, and notices the second item: a letter, penned in grey ink and taped to the door of Jake’s house. It’s been carefully folded, and is addressed to him.

“From the Desk of the Unnamed and Signless: How much longer are you going to put up with political bullshit? Why do you buy into what the elite sells? You’re nothing more than a number, a statistic on a running list of deaths and profits. Your name doesn’t matter. Your job doesn’t matter. Your affiliation sure as fuck doesn’t matter. The four families, —Medici, Pitcairn, Sforza, and Vantas—don’t care about you. Stop caring about them.

“There are eight million people in Skaia. Of these eight million, only two million are truly loyal to the four families. That leaves six million to fight. If you’re tired of living in the gutters, then join me. On the fifteenth, the day of Skaian 'Independence', look for crows. Organize. Prepare.”

After finishing the note, Dirk folds the page up. He sticks it in the pocket of his bathrobe (or, rather, of Jake’s bathrobe). He looks around, and notices that nearly every door has been graced with a page of paper. And, as the sun begins to rise over a just waking city, people begin to read. Some rip the page apart, ignoring the message. The majority seem to do as Dirk has done, keeping it.

In the back of his mind, Dirk makes a mental note to show the letter to Jake.

He’s never followed politics; he’s never had a need to, nor has he ever really had the time to. Between taking contracts and making sure that their tracks are covered, he's had his plate full. That’s not to say that he doesn’t believe what he’s read. In fact, it sounds perfectly plausible, but he’s not about to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong.

He unlocks his phone and checks Dave’s message history, though he knows what he’ll see. The message was read five days ago, but it’s yet to receive a response. He sighs. As he pockets his phone, he pushes against the rising anxiety in his chest. Dave must be busy; he’s probably still settling into that new apartment he’d texted about. There’s nothing to worry about.

Everything is perfectly fine, right?

No. Of course it is. Everything is perfectly fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thanks for reading! comments and feedback are welcome and appreciated. be sure to tip your fic writer.


	13. The Lictors Bring to Brutus the Bodies of His Sons (Jacques-Louis David)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A singular person sows the seeds of rebellion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [here's the painting](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Lictors_Bring_to_Brutus_the_Bodies_of_His_Sons) and i didn't beta read this shit at aaaaaaaaaall before posting lol. if you see any errors please point them out! thanks!

**15 July 2033** ****  
**Weather:** Humid, Hot, Cloudy   
**Login:** DStrider

[Food’s ready.] The guard for Dave’s cell is an unreasonably cheerful man by the name of John Egbert. He’s friendly, personable, and knows enough sign language to hold a decent conversation. It’s not wholly correct, on a structural level, but it’s easy enough to understand. There’s a sense of unaffected ease to him, something that most of the other guards lack. [Not much today. We have basic potato slop and some dried out jerky. Delicious, right?]

[Nope.] Dave groans. He watches the plate slide through a slot in the bulletproof glass door of his cell, then prods at it. The “slop” doesn’t move; in fact, it’s unnervingly solid. Three dead beetles have surmounted this gastric tragedy. Whether they met their fate at the top of the dish or if they had already been dead when they arrived is a fact that Dave doesn’t want to linger on.

[If you pour some water on the potato, it’ll soften up a little,] John provides, offering a buck-toothed grin. [Anyhow, someone dropped by the office today. They told me to give you this.] From his coat’s pocket, he draws a crumpled letter. It’s still folded, unopened and unread. [It got a little crushed when I had to take down one of those Medici idiots a half an hour ago. It should still be easy enough to read, though.]

Dave nods. [Thanks.] He means it. He’s found that he’s grown fond of the guard’s odd jokes and occasional chats. He watches him depart, keeping track of him by his mop of wild, but stubbornly straight hair. Once he’s not longer in sight, having turned a corner, Dave opens the delivery.

“From the Desk of the Unnamed and Signless: This letter is intended for David E. Strider, for delivery by Johnathan B. Egbert. If the individual reading this message is not one of the listed, do not read further. The Crows are watching; they know your transgressions.

“Dave: Your assigned guard is a Vantas family confidant. He is perfectly trustworthy and apparently had brief dealings with you in the past, although I’m certain neither of you would remember that sort of bullshit. If this letter finds its way to you, follow the instructions within carefully.

“As of this current time, I cannot divulge my identity. It fucking sucks, but that’s how it is at this moment. I assure you, however, that I am fully trustworthy. You are currently incarcerated in the cesspool known as the Skaia City Nonpartisan Prison. It’s a maximum security facility, so don’t go and get any sort of smartass ideas. Despite its name, it is nothing short of  _ extremely  _ partisan. I’m sure that’s not a huge fucking surprise, right? Nothing in this shithole place is what it says on the dented, ass-scented tin of shit. The prison is mostly under the thumb of the Vantas family.

“I’m sure you don’t actually care about the technicalities. So, I’ll skip ahead to your instructions. First of all, divulge any pertinent happenings to John. He is documenting them. Secondly, in your dealings with John, do not use written media. This leaves a paper trail, and that’ll eventually trace back to me. If this happens, you’re absolutely, irrevocably fucked.

“Know the following: according to insider sources, you’re slated for execution for treason and multiple counts of murder. Your records have been modified to reflect as if every contract kill you’ve ever done is no longer justified as a service. Fortunately for you, the current execution list is unreasonably long. You’re not due for the chopping block for another year. That said, in order for this to be successful, you must not arouse any sort of suspicion, nor should you act in a way that may draw extreme criticism.

“I cannot lay out an exact timeframe for the following instructions, just know that, when the time comes, you will know. The first signal will coincide with the delivery of a small amount of poison. DO NOT USE THIS ON YOURSELF, YOU GODDAMNED DUMBASS. Keep this for any emergencies. The second signal will indicate that John is making preparations for your escape. The third is to let you know that you should begin to act; John will help you. The fourth and final notification will be on the day of your escape.

“When you have finished reading this note, burn it, using the provided match. Flush the remainder down the toilet.”

Upon concluding the letter, Dave does as he has been told. After all, he doesn’t have much to lose. If what this individual says is true, he can choose between dying in jail, being publicly executed, and trusting a stranger; considering his circumstances, he chooses the last of these options.

He lights the match and holds the letter aloft, above the toilet. He allows the flickering oranges and reds to lap at his fingertips, singeing his skin. It’s like a light tickle, to him; pain is relative. When he’s satisfied with the destruction, he drops the ashes, then flushes. When he turns around, he finds that John has been standing in front of his cell door, blocking any passerby from viewing what’s happening inside.

**Login:** RLalonde

Outside of the window, one floor below, a crowd of people have gathered. They chant, though they haven’t seemed to reach a consensus on what to say. It’s a discordant, droning noise, like an emergency alert siren.

This isn’t what concerns her, however. No, what concerns her is the headline for the daily news, which triumphantly proclaims the capture of Dave Strider. She’s already fielded an infuriated call from Dirk, and, now, she’s contending with what might be an angry mob at the entrance to her home.

She glances, anxiously, from the news to the window. Perched upon the ledge, she sees a crow. Its feathers are pure black, and its eyes burn an odd, wavering red. As she looks on, it opens its mouth and, in a distorted, layered voice, it speaks.

“To anyone gathered before this announcement: Your letters contain encoded messages with your instructions. If you wish to join me, use the embedded code to log into the website. When exposed to the correct light, you will find the answers to your questions.”

With this, the mechanical bird opens its wings. A low hum comes from it, and it flies a few feet into the air before bursting into flames.

Rose, meanwhile, considers what’s been said. From the pile of assorted papers and bookmark-laden tomes on her desk, she pulls out the odd letter she’d found taped to her door a few days prior. She turns it over in her hands a few times, scouring for clues, before noticing a small red mark in the corner.

Putting the color together with the cryptic announcement, she dives back into the chaos of her workspace. After a good deal of digging, she manages to find a flashlight and a semi-translucent red binder divider. Holding the plastic in front of the light creates a makeshift red bulb, which she quickly focuses on the unassuming page of paper.

In response to the light, words begin to appear on the page. A website, first; then, a message.

“Rose Lalonde: I am aware of your position and status as a skilled practitioner of medicine. I am also fully aware of your ties to the recently imprisoned individual, Dave Strider. Since you must be reading this right now, I would like to propose a deal: If you can provide aid to the cause, I can help secure Dave’s freedom. This isn’t necessary, but it would be greatly appreciated. If you agree to these terms, contact the seamstress, Kanaya Maryam, and inform her that the Vantas Family is looking for some formalwear. — The Unnamed and Signless”

**Login:** DirkS

“Look, chap, I’ll do my darndest to get Dave out of jail, but I can’t exactly promise you that it’ll go swimmingly,” Jake explains. His brows are furrowed, and the toothpick from his midday meal (a rather large sandwich, composed of at least three different meats) wobbles between his teeth as he speaks. “I can tell you what I know, though. He’s at the central prison, and he’s under the guard of a Vantas family confidante. Is that a good thing?” As he concludes his statement, he removes his feet from the polished hardwood dining table.

Dirk pauses. He rubs his chin, feeling the rough, untrimmed stubble against his palm as he does. “I mean… Hm. It’s possible that it is, but we didn’t exactly treat Karkat like a real bro. And, you know what? I’ll fess up to fucking that whole thing up, because I boned that so royally that, if the heritage of said fuckery was actually valid, I’d be the king of the whole universe. On the flip side, I’m not actually sure if Karkat  _ knows  _ that I fucked him over.”

“Probably not,” Jake shrugs. “I don’t know squat about the man.”

“Yeah.” Dirk sighs. He pulls a pocket knife from his pocket and twirls it between his fingers. “You’re really not involved in this, so I probably shouldn’t drag you in any further than you already are.”

“I’d say so.”

“Yeah.” A low growl. A thoughtful hum. Then, after a few moments of pained silence, Dirk comes to a conclusion, “Thanks for letting me stay over, bro. I think I’ll be kickflipping out of here, though. I’ve got some things to take care of, but I’m sure the specific items in question are painfully apparent, no?” When this comment isn’t met with an immediate look of understanding from his conversational partner, Dirk waves it aside. “Never mind. The whole idea is that I’m going to leave you alone for a while, so don’t come chasing after me. If I end up on the news, then you can safely assume that I have fucked up in the most spectacular, sophomoric way possible.”

Jake nods. He stands, pats Dirk on the back, and offers him a quick hug. “Stay safe, then.”

“I’ll try, at least.” With this said, Dirk leans over. From beneath the kitchen table, he takes the bag he’d prepared earlier. He tosses it over his shoulder, turns, and leaves. As he passes the front door, he takes Dave’s sword from the umbrella stand.

**Login:** KVantas

Sollux Captor has always been a friend of Karkat’s. In fact, there’s a long history of comradery between the Vantas and Captor lineages. Historically, the bond was forged during the founding of Skaia, when both households allegedly agreed to a truce in order to expand their political scope. It’s a story that’s often repeated, and one whose veracity is neither exceedingly outlandish nor inherently trustworthy. In any case, the reason for the bond isn’t relevant; what’s relevant is the person.

Sitting on the floor, across from Karkat, Sollux is still clearly taller. He’s more slender, with a longer torso and borderline gangly limbs. He’s grown out a pair of haphazardly trimmed sideburns, and the dark black hairs tangle against his olive skin. His neatly combed hair is in direct opposition to his disheveled appearance, with a shirt that’s too loose at the neck and too wrinkled beyond salvation.

“Where did you have these pieces of feathery shit, anyhow?” Karkat inquires, studying one of Sollux’s robotic birds. “I mean, not to inflate your already morbidly obese ego, but these don’t exactly seem like the sort of shit you’d just throw together in a few days.”

“Hm?” Sollux hums. He looks up from his work; amber eyes stare out from a pair of anaglyph glasses. When he speaks, his voice carries a noticeable lisp. “Oh! Yeah. Those’ve been in my closet since high school. No big deal. All I’m doing is rigging them to explode, now. You owe me for the materials, by the way, Vantas.”

“Yeah, like my ridiculously wealthy family would notice a few thousand dollars missing from the coffers,” is Karkat’s sardonic reply. “How many more of these did you say you had?”

“Hm.” Sollux runs his tongue over his oddly pointed canines. “Twelve? Not too many. Why? Are your precious little aristocrat fingers getting tired? What about all that work you did with the common folk?”

Karkat snickers, though his face remains set in the perfect image of a scowl. “Fuck you. And, no, I just need to know how many more of these bastards I need to use.” He picks up a small speaker, wires it to a chip (programmed and created by Solux), and loads it into the mouth of the crow. It takes a bit of wiggling, but the component eventually settles into place. A few tightened screws close the beak. Before Karkat releases the robot, he prods at the beak, ensuring that the mechanism is properly functioning.

“Another one ready?”

“You bet your sorry ass,” Karkat proclaims. When he opens the window, he’s careful to do so quietly. He works slowly, easing the pane upwards, until there’s just enough space for him to fit the robotic bird through. He holds it outside, balanced on his palm, until Sollux sends it the signal.

“Well, then, release the fucker.”

There’s a low, mechanical whirring. The wings, embellished with fake feathers, spread open. They flap hesitantly—once, twice—then, the beast rises into the air. It needs no controller; each is programmed to go to a specific spot, without input, speak its message, and detonate upon returning safely to the sky.

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is a mix of a few different anime, including (prominently) _gangsta_ and _akira_ , as well as a pinch of some other random shit, possibly to include _paprika_.


End file.
